A Diamond is Forever
by mangesboy01
Summary: "Only one coal will survive the pressure of becoming a diamond." Let the 47th Annual Hunger Games Begin!
1. Angel on Fire: Part 1

**Prologue Part 1**

_"Try as I may to shine in the darkness."_

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**Valencia Dupont (The second wife of Gamemaker Klaas Dupont)**

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The kitchen air is scorching hot. By hot, I mean, that my freshly powered face is starting to glisten with sweat. Feeling the salty liquid slither down my neck, I open the nearest window, hoping to send out some of the blazing heat waves.

For the first time in my life, I'm attempting to cook for my husband. I'm not too keen on the act, honestly, as I'd rather let the maids handle the domestic affairs. But today, I decided that it's the very least I can do with the 47th Annual Hunger Games and all that jazz approaching.

You see, my husband, the lovely and talented Gamemaker, Klaas Dupont, has been spending these past three days slaving on this year's arena. I imagine him to be exhausted. Come to think of it, I'm getting a little dizzy just thinking about all those preparations and numbers and politics that spill into making the Hunger Games the entertainment we love so dearly. Oh, how I wouldn't want the dreadful job of making sure everything runs smoothly.

As the evening breeze blows into the kitchen, it coaxes me into fluttering around the room in my violet gown, tossing back my auburn curls while spinning with glee. I'm just so, so unbelievably happy he's coming home today! It seems like centuries since I've seen him last, although I know it's only been three days. I'm exaggerating, yes. Yet, a girl like myself can only wait so long for her lover to return.

After waltzing with the wooden chair a few minutes, I stop my frivolous charade, knowing if I do too much of it I'll become sweaty, which would be revolting. From there, I go to check the meal that's roasting in the vast silver oven. As I bend over to check the rice and lamb, which is covered with a soupy, purple sauce, a ruckus fills the dining room. Hearing it, I have no doubt that the boys have destroyed something yet again. Oh, how I just love this grueling task known as motherhood.

Dashing into the room as fast as my dazzling pearl heels will allow me, I gasp at the sight of my porcelain china. Just a few moments ago, it was a decorative piece of glass painted with gold and blue flowers. But now, it's nothing more than mere trash: tiny pieces of worthless glass!

Holding back the tears, I glare at the two little devils that stand in front of me. Both have watery eyes and pouting lips. Looking at them, one would think they're innocent and naive, that they have no idea what they're doing when they shattered such luxurious items. But that is certainly not the case! These two misfits know exactly what they're doing!

"What's your excuse this time?" I hiss. The anger inside of me rises higher and higher when I notice that the cabinet doors are flung open, revealing more shattered china plates.

"We were just playing tag," says the oldest, Gregor, who's eight.

"We didn't mean to break it mommy. It...it…was an accident, we swear," adds the other, Willard, whom I estimate to be five. Although if I'm honest, I don't really know how old the little one is.

Gregor and Willard stare at me, waiting for my next move. Once, I'd asked Klaas if we could rename them, as I wasn't too fond of the names his late wife chose. After making such a remark, I had to powdered my face extra thick for the next two weeks. Because what good wife would let the public see her face at its worse? Not I, of course.

"Than how did the cabinet doors get open?" I ask matter-o-factly. A sense of pride washes of me, too, as I know I've caught them finally in a lie. This time they'll be the ones punished, and I know it.

"Willard slipped into it," says Gregor, digging for a new lie. "He was running too fast and lost control!"

"Liar!" I sing. "You're a little liar!"

Instantaneously, their pouting lips turn to menacing lines, which makes me gleam even brighter. Finally, I've upstaged them at their own game.

"Gregor, do you know what you're father does to liars?" I taunt.

"Of course," says Gregor bluntly.

Surely, he does not. But I'll play into this little game he has going. "Okay, then what does he do, sweetie?"

"He sleeps with them!" shouts Gregor, causing both he and Willard to burst into a fit of giggling.

Flustered, I barely manage to squeak out, "No. . . no . . .no . . . he punishes them!"

"No, he doesn't," replies Gregor. If only I could slap him now and get away with it. But the last time I hit him, it left a mark. And once his father saw it, my face mirrored the little brats. So, discipline is out of the question. For now, at least.

"And what makes you think that?" I ask smugly.

"Because he married you!" cheeps Willard. "And you're a liar!"

I nearly faint at such an accusation. Slowly I breathe in and out, which is quite difficult given the girdle that hugs my ribs.

Once I've recomposed myself, I reply stiffly with, "I am not a liar."

Gregor grins ear to ear and I groan inside. "Yes, you are silly," he laughs.

That's it! These little devils have said enough!

"No, I'm not!" I bust out.

Before I can shout again, I order myself to calm down - my mother has always instructed me to act like a lady. Composing myself once again, I respond with, "Boys, I never lied about anything. I wasn't aware that your father was still married at the time."

Gregor's face brightens at the statement. And I feel as though I'm the one on trial instead of these two malicious boys. Swallowing down these emotions bubbling inside, I turn around, returning back to my foreign domain. As I do, Gregor calls out, "We know you didn't make that lamb and rice casserole from scratch! Willard and I saw the can in the trash! All you had to do was warm it up!" Their giggling and laughs and snorts continue, mocking me all the more.

Enraged, I storm back into the kitchen. I'm only in there a minute or two when the oven timer goes off and I'm having to tug out the hefty pan of rice and lamb. As I set the table with shaky hands, I hear the front door slam. Immedietely I drop the plate I'm holding.

Without much thought, I'm moving swiftly, yet gracefully, towards the foyer to greet my wonderful husband. Ideally, he's everything a beautiful girl like me deserves. He's tall, dark, and handsome. Not to mention, he's richer than most here in the Capitol!

I'm only a few inches away from leaping into his arms when the two spawns of Satan come and take my opportunity. Pouting, I watch as the love of my life takes his sons into his arms, hugging them tightly and showering them with kisses.

"Sweetheart, dinner smells delicious," says Klaas as he puts down the children and skips over to me. I manage to giggle at his awkward gesture before his lips collide with mine. In the background I hear Willard and Gregor gagging and making noises, though it doesn't faze me. Because this is my moment to be showcased, not theirs.

After putting me down, I offer to take his briefcase. He hands it to me gingerly, still smiling from our passionate kiss. However, the intimate moment we have is soon ruined, like all good things are, because Gregor and Willard are there, dragging him into the kitchen, and I'm left alone once again.

Sighing, I walk over to closet, where I usually place his brief case. While opening the door, a small cylinder spills from the bottom of the brown leather case. Letting my curiosity overrule my better judgment, I pick up the fallen object, reading slowly the lettering on the side.

_ARENA PROTOTYPE FOR THE 47th__ ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES_

Popping off the lid, I dump the contents of the cylinder into my smooth palm. Instantly a small microchip falls out along with a note and several diamonds the size of my earrings. Unfolding the note, I read it too.

_Make every diamond breakable. _

_- S_

"Daddy!" wails Gregor.

The sudden outburst causes me to flinch and I fling the microchip along with the diamonds into the depth of the closet. Scrambling on all fours, I begin frantically searching the curtains of fur coats for the thing that I know proves more valuable than my life itself. Stupid! I'm so unbelievably stupid for being such a klutz!

Where is it! Panic itches through me as I shuffle through more heavy coats, getting deeper into the belly of the immense closet. Oh dear! Where is it!

Suddenly, I hear the pattering of footsteps in the distance. Swallowing the fear rising in my throat, I make my way out of the closet before rising slowly to my feet. But as I go to stand, I find myself sinking. Sinking into darkness from the pain washing over my head.

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**A/N:**

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**So, this is my first SYOT. . . and I'm a little nervous. **

**The rules and guidelines are on my profile, so read those before submitting. **

**When submitting, please do so by PMs. If you leave a form in the review, it will be ignored, plain and simple. **

**If you have any questions or concerns shoot me a PM. **

**Submissions close June 17th. :) **

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******Angel on Fire By: Antony and The Johnsons**

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**Like always: Read, review, but most importantly, enjoy. :) **


	2. Angel on Fire: Part 2

**Prologue Part 2**

_"Try as I may to shine in the darkness."_

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**Valencia Dupont (The second wife of Gamemaker Klaas Dupont)**

* * *

All I see is white. Lambent ceilings and walls and floors. The brightness flocks to me in a way the older gentlemen did before Klass asked for my hand. Really, he saved me from the boredom, those men from the rejection.

When I attempt to get to my feet, I feel a sharp pain ooze from the crook of my arm. Looking at the sight, I notice a tub jugging out of the inside crevasse of my forearm. "Oh, dear!" I clamp my hand over my mouth quickly, silencing myself from saying much more. What on earth could that be?

Looking past the tube in my wrist, I notice that I'm lying in bed. Nervously I wrap the silk sheets around my fingers, giving the soft material a squeeze. Even though the fabric is cool to the touch, sweat still lathers my palms as I think, _where am I_?

I glance to the beeping machines to my left. All of which are showing numbers and lines of different colors. In that moment, I put the final piece into the puzzle.

The Hospital.

But why? Why am I here? The last thing I remember is looking…wait. What was I looking for again?

Before I have time to think much more on the subject, a man in a white coat comes sweeping into my room. His teeth match the sheets. White, but also polished to a perfection that I know only bleaching can achieve.

"How are you feeling Mrs. Dupont?" asks the Doctor kindly after adjusting the thin, white mask hiding his lips.

Suddenly, I don't feel so peachy anymore. A distinct throb pounds in the back of my skull. Reaching back to find the origin of pain, I shriek when I feel a lump the size of a plum.

"It seems you've suffered a concussion," admits the Doctor when he notices my panic. "Therefore, the back of your head may or may not be slightly sore."

Slightly sore? Seems like a ludicrous statement if you ask me.

In all my young, lovely years I've never felt a pain like this before. Now, I'm most certain that I cannot bear childbirth. So when Klaas arrives I'll be sure to tell him this, as he wants another child soon. Sometimes, I wonder if that's all he wants...

You see, I have a low pain tolerance. For example, I can barely handle getting my eyebrows waxed. Plus, why on earth would I want to wreck a figure that doctors have worked so hard to establish. That doesn't make sense, does it? Surely, Klaas wouldn't love me the same if I became rounded or developed cankles.

The doctor scribbles away on his notebook as I eyeball the machines that show the repetition of my heart. Doing this is enough to distract myself from the pain in my head, although I'm more than happy to see the prescription the doctor has prescribed.

Before the doctor exits the room, I manage to ask two questions, "What happened?" and "How did I get this concussion to begin with?" In return, the doctor smiles, showing me his pearly whites once more. Awing them, I make a mental note to have my teeth altered as soon as possible. After all, shouldn't every ornament like myself have teeth as dazzling as diamonds?

"Your husband told us that you fell down a flight of stairs while doing laundry," replies the doctor gently. And then he's stepping out the door, leaving me alone to process the information.

Since when do I do laundry? I ask myself. Isn't that what our lovely, tightlipped avoxes do?

Yes, that's their job. Therefore, I'm positive that I didn't fall due to a slip down the stairs. So, why did my adoring husband lie to all the poor doctors and nurses about how I got here? And why did he come up with such a trivial lie in the first place?

Questions swirl in and out of my head, mirroring the nurses who check my vitals every two hours. Only once does one actually acknowledge my existence. Her gain, of course.

"Sweetheart," says the nurse. I don't care to know her name, simply because I don't see the point when I'll be out of here another day tops. "You banged up your head pretty bad, didn't you?" she giggles. "You and your husband may need to tone it down …"

"Oh, it wasn't that," I say mischievously. "I simply slipped while going down the stairs."

The nurse walks over to the door and picks up a electronic device, which holds all my medical and contact information. As soon as her eyes read the screen, they turn from sweet to sinister.

"Are you okay?" I ask, fishing for the reason the light dimmed out of her eyes.

"Yes dear, I'm fine," she says sternly. The softness in her voice gone. "I was just unaware of who your husband was that's all. I must've mixed up my rooms, as I thought Gamemaker Klaas' wife was across the hall."

Smiling, I say, "Don't fret about such frivolous things. It's completely fine."

Ignoring my kind banter, the nurse walks over to the door, sliding it shut. Now, I'm beginning to become a little flustered. What does she think she's doing? This isn't the time for a one on one chat, is it?

Then, when she locks the door, I realize this cannot be good.

Quickly I reach for the control that calls for assistance, but my arm moves too sluggishly and the nurse has time to snatch it away from my grasp.

"What are you doing!" I bust out.

"Hush!" whispers the nurse.

"No!" I scream, straining my healthy lungs.

This time the mysterious nurse shoves her hand over my mouth. I taste the salt and chemicals that linger on her palm, which makes me cringe. Has she ever heard of little lavender lotion or hand perfume?

"I'll remove my hand if you promise to calm down," she commands. I nod.

"First things first," says the beefy nurse, removing her hand as she paces over to the cabinet; digging through them. "Let me see if the right size syringe is here in one of these containers. After all, he did warn me that you tend to handle medication quite well."

Syringe? What is this woman talking about? And who is he? The doctor? _Klaas_?

An ominous chill sweeps down my spine at the thought of my husband. In the recent hours I've been ignoring all the thoughts lingering inside my mind. Obviously, I know that I didn't fall down those stairs. That established, the real question is: what did I do to get myself here? And more importantly, what has Klaas done? Sure, I wouldn't be surprised if he hit me, as he's done it before. Well, quiet frequently actually. But never has he put me in the hospital. Yes, his mother said he had the potential - she says a lot of things, though - and I never thought it to be true. Because really, he loves me too much to do such a treacherous thing.

"What are you doing?" I ask weakly, my voice cracking from the dryness in my throat.

"I'm covering up his tracks."

She turns around, holding a syringe filled to the prim with orange liquid. At the sight, my heart plunges into my stomach and I start to squirm in my bed. I need to get out of here, now!

Seeing my new demeanor, the nurse dashes over to me and strikes me across the cheek, sending my mind reeling and causing my vision to blur. When I come to, I swear I see diamonds twinkling above, but it could also be the bright lights. I don't know.

Stepping back, the nurse holds up the syringe, and then she lifts up the tube. I reach out to stop her, but the back of her hand catches me once more, causing me to lay my head back against the pillow. The pain outweighing the fight.

"What?" I manage to moan out.

"It appears that you know too much dear," replies the nurse with fake sweetness.

"I don't know anything," I say defiantly, attempting to reassert my position as a gamemakers' wife. She shouldn't be treating me this way, anyway. No one should treat me this way! "And I think you should leave now before my husband returns."

"Sure you do," shoots the nurse. "And your husband?" She looks at me, her face curving into a smile. "Your husband is the one who put you here. Or don't you remember that? I mean, he did hit you harder than he thought. Though, I guess he shouldn't have kicked you when you were on all fours. But then again, young girls like you do enjoy being treated like dogs."

Slowly but surely, the memory comes back to me. I was searching for the microchip, in which I had lost, when I heard my husband approaching. I was going to explain to him that it was an accident, that it was a mere misunderstanding on my part. But before I could, I felt a rush of pain in my head. Then, the world went dark.

Swallowing the fear rising in my throat, I ask again, "Why are you doing this?"

"I've already told you," says the nurse firmly. "You've seen too much. Plus, I believe your husband has his eye on another gamemaker, as his next wife is to be great with children. And from what I've heard, you've lacked that quality, dear." She gives a sympathetic frown.

That much is true. I'm terrible with children. But still, is that enough to take my life? All because I don't like nor want children. Isn't that my choice to make? Don't I have a say in all of this? And as for the note I saw, it was nothing. Something I've already forgotten. But more importantly, who is this other gamemaker she speaks about?

"Why?" I ask, the betrayal and hurt making my voice higher than usual. "Why would Klass do this to me? We're happy, aren't we? And what other woman?"

There's no reply to my questions, only chuckling.

As she fidgets with the tube, I feel my eyes threatening with tears. This can't be happening to me. I can't die now; I can't leave this world I love alone and at the hands of some plump woman. Once more, I go to lift up my arms, but my head doesn't permit the action. I'm too wounded and weak to even claw her with my manicured nails.

"Please," I beg. "I'll have children. . . I'll get a divorce . . . I'll move to one of the districts. I'll . . ."

"Shhh," says the woman softly, stroking her hand through my hair. "It's going to be okay. You're not going to feel a thing, I promise."

And now, she's inserting the orange liquid into the tube.

Tears streak down my cheeks as realization shouts into my ears. I feel the cool liquid coursing through my veins, forcing me to feel nothing at all.

I am numb. I am replaceable.

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**Deaths will be based upon realism. I will not base my deaths upon reviews, however, I would like to know if you're reading. If you don't care to review, shoot me a PM, letting me know that you haven't abandoned your tribute. Also, be prepared for not "if", but "when" your tribute dies, because there can only be one victor. Honestly, I hope that you'll stick with me even after your tribute has perished. But if not, then I wish you well in your departure.**

**Here are the wonderful tributes!**

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**District 1 - Luxury**

Male: Cartier Rappaport, 18.

Female: Kendra Lear, 18.

**District 2 - Masonry **

Male: Castor Ortega, 18.

Female: Neith Mortici, 18.

**District 3 - Technology **

Male: Cordin Gerick, 17.

Female: Maven Ashford, 16.

**District 4 - Fishing**

Male: Bastian Prewitt, 18.

Female: Kiah Mirelle, 18.

**District 5 - Power**

Male: Rion Caraher, 15.

Female: Seydre Lyren, 17.

**District 6 - Transportation**

Male: Laec Arias, 12.

Female: Ryker Brunel, 16.

**District 7 - Lumber**

Male: Nash Terrin, 15.

Female: Arleigh Keller, 16.

**District 8 - Textiles**

Male: Metias Callah, 17.

Female: Naomi Aracus, 17.

**District 9 - Grain**

Male: Radison Bombeck, 13.

Female: Lora Venere, 16.

**District 10 - Livestock **

Male: Dax Landcaster, 18.

Female: Merris Bradley, 15.

**District 11 - Agriculture**

Male: Cidar Rye, 17.

Female: Tucker Keefe, 12.

**District 12 - Coal**

Male: Eliah Seeton, 18.

Female: Thalia Belmont, 18.

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**If your tribute isn't on the list, I'm terribly sorry. I'll be sending out PMs shortly explaining as to why they didn't make it. ****With that said, welcome to the 47th Annual Hunger Games!**

**All deaths and other information will be updated on the blog below. **

**Blog: www.a diamond isfor-ever. blogspot. com or you can just go to my profile. Whichever. **

**And here are some questions that I would love for you to answer.**

**Thoughts on the tributes? Any early favorites?**

**Thoughts on the chapter? **

**Thoughts on my writing? **

**Lastly, the reapings will be up next week sometime, so keep a look out of for that.**

**Oh, and thank you to jabberjayheart (Corey) for letting me use your format. **

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**Angel On Fire By: Antony and The Johnsons**

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******Like always: Read, review, but most importantly, enjoy. :)**


	3. Au Revior

**Au Revior **

_Let's play a game, where all of the life we lead can change. _

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**Meliora Lowe (Gamemaker) **

I hold the cold glass against my palm, swirling around the sparkling liquid over and over until it nearly slides over the rim. The fizzing of the champagne crackles lightly, barely drowning out the tedious ticking of the clock. Is it fair to say I hate that wretched thing?

When the bubbles finally dissolve into foam, I take a sip, feeling the tightness in my throat expand as the warm liquid passes through. Funny, how I've started to need a depressant to gain fake happiness during a time like now. Now, as in the time when people like myself hop and bobble and stomp around their upscale houses chanting names of the reaped and volunteered.

Once, I chanted their names too.

But now, I can barely find the courage to say their names aloud. Much less, hit the button that bids when Venn asks us to place bets on those we expect to die first, and then again on those we expect to make it to the finale. Who knew guilt could hit as hard as the swords I'd watched on the television for years and years. . .

Maybe it wasn't just guilt, though. No, it was something much more that that. A girl with brown eyes haunting my slumbers every night, reminding me I had gotten what I deserved. A boy with a limp laughing, chuckling at my despair, as I had done his when he died during the bloodbath. And there was always that same light haired boy from District 4 who begged for his life, and at the time I thought he was a coward doing so. But he wasn't a coward. Not in the least bit.

Because in a few months time, I would mirror his ways, begging and pleading to someone, anyone. I'd cry, even pray, for the odds to be different, for them to be in my favor. Why did I let them watch the Games, thinking nothing could come of it? Why was I so oblivious to the filth I was pouring into their little souls? Why didn't I see the signs before it was too late?

But that was just it, wasn't it? At the time they were just Games. . .harmless Games. Games that happened on a vast television screen and not in my kitchen.

Never, did I expect my fifteen year old and fourteen year old to host their own finale at home. I'd never expected to lose a child the same way those in the districts did. Yet, it happened. I walked in to find my fifteen year old bruised and bloodied, and my baby boy cold and lifeless.

Death. It became real to me the moment I put him in the ground. Watching his casket descend into the dirt, I placed myself in every other mother's shoes, and I felt the pain, hatred, and despair that came along with losing a child. The feelings cracked me to my core.

It was no longer about odds and money and fancy parties, I realized. And as the next Games rolled around, there was no longer any joy that came with the propaganda, signs, and gossip. For the Games had robbed me of a child. Just like it did every year in the twelve districts.

Florian's and Xanthene's chatter barrels through the thin walls, announcing their soon arrival into the room. At the high pitched squeals and laughter, I tighten my grip on the glass, ready to down another drop. No one understands why I'm still here. Especially not after how much the Games have cost me. But in my mind, I have to do something, anything, to make things right. I have to find a way to stop the thing I've helped to perfect from taking more lives.

* * *

**Florian Haertel (Gamemaker)**

As Xanthene and I enter the room, Meliora takes another swig from her glass. _Wow._ I mouth silently. The reapings haven't even aired yet and she's already almost through her first drink. Can't say I'm not surprised there, though. Because, well, I'm not. We all know Meliora hasn't been the same since she lost both her sons. One, killed by a stab wound to the chest, and the other. . . well, I think he's addicted to morphling now. Something about how he couldn't handle the guilt of killing his younger brother. Either way, she doesn't speak about them, and we don't ask.

"Good morning," I say, flashing my brightest smile to Meliora. Maybe it can wipe that frown off her face, although I highly doubt it. Usually, Meliora only smiles when Venn is around.

"Hello," she replies stiffly before taking another sip of champagne.

The childish part of me wishes to snatch the drink out of her hand and toss it to the floor. But I don't dare make her mad or flustered. We all know that Meliora is here because of her designs. The uniforms in the arena would be full of a lot less tricks if it wasn't for her ingenious decisions. That said, Venn would surely kill me if I made her even more unstable than she already is, as her designs come a lot slower nowadays.

"Are you ready for th-" I begin.

"Florian," interrupts Meliora. "Let's skip the pleasantries today, please." She motions to the leather chair beside her. Or should I say the cushion of gloom. "Have yourself a seat. You have work to do before Venn and the others arrive."

Quickly, I suggest, "What about Xanthene?" I really don't want to face another year next to the moody drunk alone. I mean, one minute she's laughing with Venn, and the next, she has no personality at all. Like now for example.

"What about Xanthene?" asks Meliora, irritated.

"She won't be able to sit next to me," I finish. "She's too. . . uh. . . large?"

I look over to Xanthene's bulging belly. To think that in only a few days she'll be mother is absurd. I can only hope the kid has survival instincts about him, because Xanthene doesn't have a clue about parenthood. She'll be lucky to even feed the kid, given she knows where the milk comes from.

"She can sit where she always does," answers Meliora blatantly.

Ugh.

Pouting, I have a seat next to the old grouch. For the next half hour, I work on setting up the right channels, making sure each camera in the districts is streaming live to the Capitol and that there's no chance of interference. After all, interruptions would only serve as an inconvenience to all our lovely viewers. And if our lovely viewers aren't satisfied, then my job becomes a lot harder and unpleasant.

Finally, one by one, the others arrive and the show can begin. When Venn issues for me to hit the red power button, kicking off the reapings, I nearly scream in delight. Oh, how I've done the action at least twenty times in my sleep, simply because of the excitement blazing through my veins. To say I'm eager to see this year's tributes is a complete understatement.

I press down the red button, causing the vast screen in front of me to flicker to life. Watching it, I count off in my head. One, two, three, four; all the way to ten before I start with my next line, which I've memorized, or course.

"Venn," I say proudly, another smile gracing my face. "Reapings in five. . . four. . . three. . . two. . . one!"

* * *

**Venn Nardeli (Head Gamemaker) **

I smile, nodding at an overzealous Florian. The little guy can never contain himself when it comes to showtime. Oddly enough, he's one of us with a more serious job too. Though, I can't say it's a more difficult one. Because really, it isn't. All he does is direct camera feeds and press a button, which I've colored red for the sake of time. Honestly, if left to his own devices the guy would be as clueless as the younger tributes who stumble through training are.

Suddenly, District 1 flashes onto the screen. Their escort, Saveon, bounces around the decorative stage, his indigo mop of hair swishing back and forth, as he shakes hands with all of the handsome and beautiful victors. Most of which I've received the pleasure of seeing up close and personal; more than a frivolous handshake to be quite frank. All, however, I've had the honor of speaking with at the Victor's Banquet. And let's just say there's a few young mentors who hold my interest longer than the fancy soups and eloquent desserts do.

With that thought in my mind, I use it to carry me through the waves of mundane set by the Mayor as she reads the Treaty of Treason in a monotone voice. Once she's seated and I've wiped the sleepiness from my eyes, I listen as Saveon says, "Ladies First!" And then heads toward the glass bowl full of names.

Undoubtedly, the slip of paper he chooses won't be entering the arena like so many others will, as there's always volunteers from District 1. I'd say this district is one of the more predictable with its arrogant, self absorbed, and flirtatious tributes. But then again, with every new tribute comes new surprises. Over the years that's one thing I've learned to be true.

Let's see if these two can put that logic to the test once more.

"Lorelei As-"

"I volunteer!"

My heart beats rapidly at the sound of the girl's voice while my eyes search for her in the crowd. Sure enough, I soon see the dainty girl strutting her way to the stage. Once she's there, she brushes back her light blonde hair, revealing gorgeous grey eyes.

"Well, aren't you pretty!" exclaims Saveon.

"Please," says the girl confidently. "I'm sure you can think of a better word to describe your newest victor, Kendra Lear."

Saveon smiles awkwardly, obviously letting his confusion shine bright in his dull colored eyes. "Uh, beautiful then."

Kendra Lear smiles, replying sweetly with, "That's better. But we'll work on it, okay?"

"Okay!" chirps Saveon before scurrying over to the boy's bowl.

As he plucks a piece of paper from the bowl, I turn my focus to Kendra, watching as she stands on stage twirling and fidgeting with her hair. From this angle, she seems a little nervous, maybe even anxious, and I wonder why. Isn't a girl like herself bred for this kind of life?

"And our male tribute is-"

"Cartier Rappaport!" finishes a male voice in the audience.

Dumbfounded, Saveon stands there silently beside Kendra, waiting for the tall, brown-haired boy to make his way out of his section and up to the stage. Along the way, I notice him winking at a few girls, although the gesture looks much more natural coming from a guy like me. Seems the boy could use a few pointers in that department. Plus, a nose job, as his nose seems a little too flat for one of my victors.

"He seems promising," says Phoebus excitedly, indicating who he plans to bet on this year. Although I can't say I'm shocked, because Phoebus always goes for the District 1 tributes. The same can be said about Klaas and how he always bets on the prettiest female tribute. After a while, you just peg people and their choices. It's easy.

On the stage, the male volunteer introduces himself as, "Cartier Rappaport," once more. Then, the two volunteers shake hands, followed by the dimming of the screen.

"District Two is coming your way shortly, boss!" reassures Florian as he frantically messes with the buttons that sit in front of him.

After hitting almost every button except the correct one, District 2 finally appears as rapidly as District 1 did. Considering the reapings are being filmed live, not to mention at scheduled times, we have the luxury of watching them in order. Back to back to back to back; all in one sitting.

The cameraman does a quick closeup of few District 2's victors. Some of which are my personal favorites: Bruno, Neander, and Elara. He turns his focus to the escort, Nays, who doesn't look as chipper and peppy as normal. Maybe its because her hair isn't pink anymore, but white.

"Shall we start!" says Nays, her voice gaining some enthusiasm as she dashes over to the girls bowl and plucks out a name. She twirls the piece of paper in her hands a few times before pressing her lips dramatically to the mike. "Since someone always interrupts me, I've decided to just ask for volunteers this year instead of reading the slip."

"Guess thats my cue then!" shouts a girl from the eighteen year old section. Stepping out of the horde of trainees, a blonde beauty saunters down the runway and over to the steps.

"I'm Neith Mortici," she greets herself openly to Nays, and then turns and winks at the camera.

"Did she really just wink at us?" asks my fellow gamemaker, Klass Dupont from the back of our room. "If so, I think I've found wife number three."

Laugher erupts through out our headquarters as Nays follows the same pattern with the male volunteer. Only this time, the tribute is less standout in my eyes.

I watch as the dark haired boy walks slowly down the path, no one challenging him to the right to volunteer. When he's on stage, Nays asks, "I take it you're our volunteer this year?"

"Castor Ortega," the robust boy says bluntly, getting straight to the point. "And yes, that is correct."

"He's going to squash Neith!" snorts Florian as he switches the screen to District 3's reaping. "I mean, look at how much taller and heavier he is than her."

_But weight and height mean nothing in the end_, I tell myself. Because if they did, my victors would be more predictable. And that's one thing that this job never is.

* * *

**Ramses Russom (Gamemaker) **

"Oh, boy!" District 3's escort, Thibault chants as the Mayor steps down from the podium. "Time to begin!"

Really, Thibault should've even be an escort anymore. What with his golden skin, golden hair, and golden suit. Clearly, the goof has no fashion sense what's so ever. Besides, I'm pretty sure he's making us here in the Capitol look all the more ridiculous in the eyes of the districts. Complete and utter joke if you ask me.

_Thibault _

I scribble his name down swiftly, starting the list of people who will need to be replaced in order for next year's Games to be all the better. In fact, after I've removed all the bad apples this year, I'm almost certain that next year will set the new standard. A standard in which I've helped to uplift.

"Are you boys and girls ready to see who will receive the honor of representing your district?" he sings, continuing on with his annoying banter.

Silence drops into the air, filling District 3's square. I do my best to hold down the chuckle rising in my throat.

"Tell me we're replacing him next year," says our newest member, Ovidia. I'm not too keen on her just yet. Especially not like Klass is. However, Klaas is keen on just about any young girl with a head full of rocks and legs that lasts for days. Typical man for you there.

"Yes," I answer straightforwardly. I turn around to find Klaas whispering into a giggling Ovidia's ear. His late wife, Valencia has only been dead seven days and he's already made himself comfy with Venn's niece. "I'm going to put in a request to Venn that Thibault be replaced with someone who's much more qualified." I'll forget to mention my own personal vendetta against him. After all, no one needs to know what he said to Uilliem four weeks ago, at one of the Pre-Games parties.

I peel myself from the "new" love couple, focusing back on Thibault, who is now dancing back over to the microphone with a slip in hand. It appears I missed the rest of his introduction. Oh, how tragic.

"Your female tribute is!" Thibault pauses, raising his gold eyebrows up and down mischievously. Like the chuckle, I hold down vomit this time. "Maven Ashford!"

A dark skinned girl, who could use a little more color in her ensemble, steps out of the sixteen year section, making her way to where an ecstatic Thibault is positioned. When she reaches him, he nearly tugs her lithe frame up to the stage by one arm. The girl cringes as she's escorted across the stage. The mask of disgust being the first expression she's worn since her name was called.

If going on first impressions, she doesn't look too worried like the reaped from her district usually do. To me, the look in her eye says that she's rather calm, satisfied even, with her odds. No doubt she'll be one to make this year all the more interesting.

"Now, onto the boys!" announces Thibault before claiming another slip. "Cordin Gerick, come on down!"

Speedily, an average sized boy from the seventeen year old section hits the walkway. If I didn't know better, I'd say we had another volunteer on our hands by how fast he glides through the crowd. Like Maven, he too seems to mask away the emotions as he takes his spot next to his stoney district partner. My eyes bounce between the two: the light skinned boy who lacks any real muscle mass, and then to the girl who could use a conditioner for her oily hair.

In the end, I analyze them both. Coming up with: Two tributes hiding behind facades. Two tributes who could bring fame and fortune back to District 3.

Mavin and Cordin end the show by shaking hands, with the latter flinching at his partner's grip.

"District Three may have a chance this year!" calls Phoebus from down front. But what does he know, exactly. The man hasn't called a victor since that girl from District 9 won seven years ago. And the only reason he won that bet then was because the boy from District 2 died during a cave in or something along those lines. A win of luck, not observation and wisdom.

"That they may," answers Meliora and Venn in unison.

"Can we pause it before starting District Four?" asks Xanthene all of a sudden. Until now, I'd forgotten she wasn't on maternity leave.

"Why?" Venn asks.

"Because I really have to pee," pleads Xanthene. "And I really don't want to miss my favorite district's reaping."

Before Venn can answer, District 4's seas appear on the screen, and then I hear Xanthene whine dramatically. Looks like she'll be holding it for a few minutes longer or she'll have a miniature ocean in her pants.

District 4's reaping follows all the others: the treaty of treason, introduction of the list of victors, address from the president. As Gratia enters the stage, her light blue skin glistening in the sunlight, I'm thankful that we're finally getting back to the good part. The tributes.

"District Four!" sings Gratia, "How are we on this lovely afternoon?"

Her question isn't answered, but it doesn't seem to bother Gratia because she's still grinning even after she plucks a name from the glass bowl.

"Since I like to toss things up every now and again," Gratia starts. "I've decided to do the male tribute first this year."

Gracia glances down at the slip, saying, "Your male tribute is Seanan O' Rior."

A boy from the sixteen year old section cuts across the crowd, shoving and pushing his way to the front. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another male dashing for the stage, legs pumping with violent speed. Seeing them both, I'd prefer the latter. Given he's in much better shape physically.

I cross my fingers, hoping that the older boy makes it to the stage first. When both boys make it to the steps, my heart plummets to my stomach. The intensity has me on edge. It's been decades since I've seen a good fight before the Games begin, and if I'm lucky I'll get to see one now.

"Get out of my way, kid," says the older boy, shoving his competition off the steps and claiming his spot on the stage.

"Goodness," sighs Gratia, eying the handsome volunteer with wavy hair and sea blue eyes. "All this testosterone has me flustered."

The young man gives a toothy grin, already knowing how to use his looks to his favor in these Games, which I consider a plus. In return, Gratia blushes, her face matching her fiery red locks.

"Uh, Um. . .Oh, and your name is?" The sinewy boy leans back quickly, barely dodging the microphone colliding for his lips.

"Bastian Prewitt," he says, taking the microphone from a swooned Gratia.

Bastian hands back the microphone to Gratia, who then fetches another slip.

"And our girl tribute is "Pacifica We-"

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Unlike the boys, there's only one girl who marches her way up to a gleaming Gratia. Though, Gratia doesn't seem to notice the poor girl at all, as she's more focused on Bastian Prewitt, who appears to be repacking his shirt on live television.

"Excuse me," says the brown eyed girl once she's taken the stage. Like most in District 4, she's attractive with cascading brown hair that ends right above her sun kissed shoulders. If honest, I'd kill for her skin tone right about now.

"Oh," says Gratia. "I'm terribly sorry. Your name, dear?"

"Kiah Mirelle," replies the girl modestly as she shoots Bastian a look, signaling him to button up his trousers and act as though he has some sense. Personally, I see no problem with the boy having his pants down to his ankles, but I guess she's upset about district honor and integrity. Something that comes with all that volunteering business, I assume.

As the two shake hands, and the reapings continue, I can't help but smile. It may be early, but I think I've seen enough to know who I'm betting on this year.

Sadly, I've always had a soft spot for those who can captivate the audience.

* * *

**Ovidia Staner (Gamemaker) **

"Why don't you and I ditch out on the reapings?" whispers Klaas in my ear. His breathe tickles my neck, creating goosebumps. Then, I feel his hand sliding past my knee, so I smack it away playfully. At last, it's proving more and more toilsome to watch both the reaping and his roaming fingers.

"Because," I say sweetly, yet sternly, "this is my first reaping and I'd like to watch all of it."

"But there's plenty of more to come," whines Klaas, his outer lip forming into a pout. "Besides, you'll just miss District's Five and Six, I promise. We'll be quick."

"No," I say. "I want to see them all, five and six included."

"Fine," he sighs. "But it's your loss."

Oh, I bet it is.

I smile again, putting on yet another rehearsed gesture for the older gentleman. You see, I have a plan like most girls my age. One that involves hopping through the hoops of success in a less timely matter.

"Now, let's see what District Five is up to, shall we?" I say, hoping to end the conversation right here and now.

My eyes find the screen just as one of my dear friends, Livinia tugs out a slip of paper and whisks back over to the sterling microphone. As she does, her purple heels clicker and clacker, causing soft chuckling from the audience of teenagers. Livinia only giggles with them, totally missing how they're laughing at her and not with her. I, however, smile, knowing one of the brats whose laughing won't be for long. What happens next will teach them to laugh at someone as kindhearted as Livinia.

"Now, our first lovely tribute is. . .Seydre Lyren."

The audience goes ghost quiet, and the smile I've been holding back for a few seconds is revealed. Though, no one but the other Gamemakers can see it. Still, I can't help but to bask in my own personal delight of the payback. Not so funny now, is it tribies?

The reaped girl strides down the walkway, eyes widened as she takes in what's just happened to her. Others to her left and right, seem to scoot away as she passes by, as if being reaped is a disease they can catch. Silly, those kids are for thinking such a thing.

Once she's on the stage, I notice how thick the girl actually is. Honestly, her face is a little rounded too, but like her weight, it can be perfected with a little help I'm sure. Livinia, whose a gentle as ever, guides her access the stoney stage and over to her spot, which is to right of the microphone. There, the girl's eyes seem to narrow, and then she gives a subtle smirk.

Wait.

Why is this girl smiling again? Surely, she isn't happy she's been thrown into a death match, as I know she's in the wrong district for that kind of behavior.

"I told you their reapings are always boring," says Klaas, breaking through my current thought.

I turn to look at his smiling face, the patches of grey highlighted amongst his dark hair. To be reaching forty soon he doesn't look it. Then again, neither does my father.

"We haven't seen the boy yet," I counter, a smirk finding its way through my glossed lips.

"Don't be disappointed when you do," Klaas adds, reaching forward to brush the hair out of my eyes. Instead of letting him touch me this time, I jerk back, playing the sudden discomfort off with a sly grin.

Brushing back the strands of fallen hair, I look up to see Livinia holding yet another slip in her hand.

"Now, for the boys," Livinia says loud and clear. "For our District Five male tribute we have Rion Caraher!"

Rion Caraher turns out to be lean boy with small shoulders and black hair. Speaking of his hair, I wish he'd sweep his unruly bangs over so I could get a better glimpse of his eyes. Yet, he never does. Instead, all he does is stumble stiffly up to the stage, stunned. His eyes mimic his district partners, but you can tell he's struggling to hold back the tears building behind them. Briefly, I wonder if he'll cry before he's called off the stage, as he'd be the first to do so this year. But to my surprise he never does.

"See, I told you. Complete disappointment."

"Not totally," I lie. Both fell short to the image I had pictured in my head of this year's outer tributes. Hopefully, Districts 6 through 12 will be more impressive.

"Bloodbaths," Klaas says sharply right as the District 6's reaping begins.

I don't say anything because I know his prediction is right. More than likely, both District 5's tributes will be bloodbaths. Dead within the first fifteen minutes of the Games.

District's 6 reapings start off to an excellent start. And no, I don't just say that because I enjoy watching Marius strut around the stage in his skin tight suit. If it wasn't for his low paying job, I'd be tempted to chase after the muscular young man. What with abs like his, which are visible through the thin material, I'm starting to wonder if dating an older gentleman is worth the loss of being spoiled by one of Panem's finest bachelor's. Still, I tell myself I'm marrying my first time for money. The second for love and passion.

With the Treaty of Treason read along with the short list of victors, Marius steps up to the microphone, muscles rippling from the simple movement. I do my best to focus on the crowd of future tributes, other than Marius, considering he's turning out to be such a huge distraction. Much like that Bastain kid from 4 was. I mean, a girl like myself can only muffle desires like these for so long.

"Ladies first," says Marius in his deep, husky voice. Secretly, I wonder what it'd feel like to be sung to by him late into the night. That, and amongst other things. . .

Swiftly, I take my eyes off of Marius' hunky physique and over to the glass bowl. As Marius plucks out a piece of paper, I can't help but to be jealous of the attention it gets. Oh, how I've never wanted to be a sheet of paper so badly.

"Our female tribute this year is," Marius starts, taking a much needed dramatic pause before he announces the girl whose life is about to change for better or worse. "Ryker Brunel!"

Ryker steps into the aisle. As she makes her way down it, she rubs her hands vigorously up and down her arms. Puzzled, I sit there, starring at the strange blonde haired girl. Does she really think its cold? Because clearly, its anything but cold outside in this scorching heat. Once again, it appears we have ourselves another unstable tribute entering into the Games, and just when I thought things were going to be mundane, too.

Marius doesn't even pay the malnourished, or should I say skeleton looking, girl any attention as she stops only a few feet away from him, scooting back when he dashes in front of her to draw another name. Though, I can't blame him for ignoring her. Because technically, guys like him shouldn't give girls like her a second glance unless needed. And right now, his attention isn't something she needs.

"For the boy tribute we have Laec Arias!" says Marius, voice dreamy.

"No!" screeches a girl from the older section, nearly busting my eardrums. Florian should take a hint and turn down the volume of those speakers.

"Haven!" screams a wailing freckled face boy as he dashes over to the frantic girl. "Don't make me go! Do something, please! I don't. . . I don't wanna go!"

A burly peacekeeper in a fetching white uniform catches the girl before she has time to reassure the young boy, who's now being carried to the stoney stage against his will. Seeing the kid's tiny kicking feet and flying fist, I'm reminded how its always such a shame to see a twelve year old get reaped. Right now, being one of the sole reasons why. You see, there's always the melodramatics with these baby faced tribies.

"Next," Phoebus says, annoyed. "I'm tired of seeing the kid squall."

"Me too," adds Ramses as he gets up from his seat, passing a stiff Meliora, and exits out the door.

"Where's he going?" I ask Klaas, curious as to why Ramses has up and left the program.

"He always does that," reassures Klass, giving a wirily smile to match the memorized words.

"But why?" I coax, fishing for more answers about the mysterious disappearance.

Klaas only shakes his head lightly before leaning forward and whispering into my ear. My muscles tighten as his hot breathe lingers across my cheek and up my nose. For a second, a warning enters my mind, pleading for me to run away from this dangerous man. But I ignore it, focusing on his sultry words instead of the rumors I've heard.

* * *

**Klaas Dupont (Gamemaker)**

"Getting any ideas yet, beautiful," I whisper, tucking back a fallen strand of Ovidia's platinum colored hair.

Attraction is always the same with me. I get attached to girls who are frail, gorgeous, and in most cases dimwitted. But with Ovidia, it's a little different. Of course, she has all of the usual qualities, so that's not the problem. The problem is that unlike the other naive girls, she doesn't take the bait so easily. It appears she enjoys toying with me as much as I do her.

Smoothly, I go to place my arm around the back of her chair, doing my best to nonchalantly roll her closer. At first, Ovidia doesn't seem to mind my sleek moves, but then as I tug her closer, she starts to pout and slide in the opposite direction, going against my advances. Perhaps my moves aren't so smooth, I suppose.

"What?" I say playfully. Frankly, I know exactly what I'm trying to do, but that doesn't me she has to.

"You know what you're doing," she attempts to say sternly, although the smile on her face betrays her true feelings. She'll have to do better than this if she plans on fighting me off. After all, I've been known to be persistent.

With Willard's and Gregor's mother it took months to get her wrapped around my finger, although with my late wife, Valencia it only took a few weeks to reel her in. It was as if the girl believed in love at first sight. Mistakingly, she had love confused with lust on my side of things.

As District 7's reaping starts, I think about Valencia. I think about the funeral, her plump mother weeping, my adoring children laughing and giggling on the car ride home. To say I did what I did was for them, would be a lie. To say that I did what I did was for the Games, would only be partially true. It wasn't just that Valencia was snooping into my briefcase, it was that she wasn't the woman that I expected to grow old with. She wasn't the woman I wanted to be the mother of my children. And looking at all the options, it only seemed fair to put her down before things became insufferable for the both of us.

"Klaas," nudges Ovidia.

"Yes," I answer, snapping back to reality.

"What do you think of Cleanth's new hair dew?"

I don't see anything new with the District 7's escort, Cleanth Odell. His green curls look exactly the same as they did last year and the year before. Surprisingly, they still match his beard and thick eyebrows. Which means the poor sap hasn't changed his image: hair, eyebrows, beard, since I was in my mid twenties.

"I don't see any change," I say while examining the mismatched escort.

"That's because you're not looking hard enough, sweetie," replies Ovidia in a childlike voice.

"Or maybe it's because I'm to busy studying you to care if the escort has green, purple, or red hair." I counter, straightening up in my chair and pushing out my chest. I'm no Marius, but what I lack in muscle, I make up for in money. And money prevails over muscle every time, trust me.

"How about you study the reaping now?" says Ovidia lightheartedly. "Leave the rest until after the recap."

I do as Ovidia says, studying Cleanth's footsteps over to the microphone instead of Ovidia's blue eyes, which are hidden behind long, voluptuous eyelashes.

"Happy Hunger Games!" chirps Cleanth before stepping back from the microphone, which could use more polishing. Those things are supposed to sparkle in the sunlight, and this one doesn't.

"Gentlemen first," he says, crossing over to the left side of the stage.

Slip in hand, Cleanth skips back up to the microphone, reading the boy's name in his most pleasant voice, "Nash Terrin!"

The boy is spotted all too quickly by those around him, as they back up, leaving him enough room to make it up to the stage without having to bump shoulders with anyone. The boy pales instantly. Walking, he does his best to draw up a shaky smile, although the gesture is about as phony as the plastic we call Xanthene's nose. Once he's wiped the sweat from his hands about a hundred times, Nash Terrin finally takes Cleanth's extended hand, who escorts the wide eyed boy to his place.

"I just love your curls," awes Cleanth as he prepares for the next tribute. "I wish mine would do that naturally."

Nash only blushes at the compliment. Cleanth waits for him to say something, but Nash only smiles even more awkwardly than before. Appears he's attempting to be cheeky for the cameras, which could work in his favor, I suppose. But from my experience, the ones with kind personalities never win the Games. They only get far enough to make things interesting for those of us who want to see them wander away from their moral compass.

"Arleigh Keller!" shouts Cleanth.

The girl isn't as easy to find. After a few minutes, a brunette wearing a stoic expression mounts the stage, looking indifferent at the hand she's been dealt. She may be one to watch, considering at how calm she's acting. But then again, I hardly ever bet on the outlier districts, as it's bad for business.

"Look at those split ends," shrieks Xanthene. "Hasn't this girl ever heard of a pair of scissors?"

"Or a brush," snips Florian.

"I think you mean curls," corrects Ovidia. "Her hair just curls at the end, doesn't mean it needs trimming or brushing."

"Ah, who cares about the girl's hair," says Venn. "Let's keep this show rolling."

And with that, District 7's reaping blossoms into District 8's.

Smog cuts through the air, traveling from the colossal textile factories in the background and settling around the justice square. Before Pasha can even give her introduction, she coughs and coughs and coughs. Then, she gags and nearly vomits all over the stage. Typical Pasha. If the camera isn't on her, she'll find a way to get it there.

"My lungs!" Pasha cries, placing her hands around her throat. "How on earth do you people live in this?"

"The same way you live with all that crud on your face!" shouts someone from the crowd.

Peacekeepers swarm the group of teenagers, searching for the one bold voice in the mass. After a few dreadful minutes they come up short, as no one, not even the cameras, have caught the ballsy kid. Appears the boy lucked out this time.

"Anyway, lets get this over with so I can go back inside," whines Pasha as she adjusts her pink wig.

Pasha goes to run over to the glass bowl, but stumbles along the way, courtesy of her stilettos. I watch as her curvy figure goes crashing into the bowl, causing slips and glass to fly everywhere once the bowl hits the concrete.

"My dress!" screams Pasha, loosing her lid. It's then that I notice the giant rip down the back, indicating the dress was probably too tight to begin with.

"Why hasn't she been replaced yet?" Ovidia asks to no one in particular.

"Because," answers Venn, chuckling a little. "She's entertaining to watch."

After scrambling to her feet, Pasha grabs a handful of slips from the floor. At the microphone she asks, "Is anyone going to clean this up or do I have to call someone?"

Pasha waits, but no one comes to her calling.

"Fine," Pasha sighs. "I'll just read one of these slips then."

Yes, Pasha. Please do the job we pay you to do.

"Naomi Aracus!"

A girl with a tan complexion sidesteps from the outer part of the aisle and into the walkway. From first glance, there's nothing that stands out about the brown haired girl. She's average in both height and weight, nothing really on the eyes either. Its safe to say that I don't see her becoming victor any time soon. Her, or any other outer district tribute for that matter.

"Another bloodbath," calls out Phoebus, causing Florian and Xanthene to giggle.

Pasha starts to retrieve another slip, but the sight of someone making his way down the aisle freezes her in her place. And before the light skinned boy can get to the stage, she's already back at the microphone, shouting, "What do you think you're doing?! I haven't called you to the stage!"

"I know," answers the young man with the muscular built. Right now, he could prove to be a great addition to the Careers. "But you don't have to, because I volunteer."

"And your name is?" asks Pasha

"Metias Callah"

There's a pregnant pause before someone shouts, "Thanks for stepping up to the plate, brother!"

This time Peacekeepers find the one who shouts, escorting him out of the Square. As the camera zooms in on the loud mouth corporate, I notice the similarities he has with the male tribute on stage. Same crooked nose. Hazel eyes. Light brown hair.

Twins, I realize.

"Seems things just got a lot more interesting," laughs Ovidia.

I look to her grinning, thinking not only about the volunteer from eight, but also the possibilities the two of us will share in the future if all goes according to plan.

"That they have," I whisper, voice barely audible. "That they have."

* * *

**Phoebus Cates (Gamemaker) **

Bloodbath, bloodbath, bloodbath. I tick off the tributes in my head, one by one, and scratch out those I consider to be pawns instead of players. Currently, I'm at four bloodbaths and counting. Both from District 5. The boy from District 6. The girl from District 8. But I'm certain there's bound to be more when we hit Districts 9, 10, 11, and 12, too.

I sigh softly as I look at the list of tributes who I actually perceive to be threats this year. Eight. Not as many as I'd like for there to be.

I'd like to think that the problem with our tributes these days isn't so much their motives, as most of them are willing to kill when the time comes, but the training. If only the other districts mirrored those from 1, 2, and 4, then we'd be guaranteed twenty-four warriors instead of a group of misfits who fight only when threatened.

But hey, I guess we can only hope for so much, right?

District 9's reaping begins, and I lean back in my chair, mind going blank. The tributes haven't even been picked, yet I can already tell they'll be nothing special. Considering its been about ten years since District 9 has provided us with a victor, I doubt this year will be any different. Lately, their tributes seem to be lacking the will to fight, to survive, and I simply don't know why.

Last year, both tributes were bloodbaths, and then the year before the girl placed thirteenth, which was a big step for little ole District 9.

Rouvin, the District 9 escort, who's dressed in some type of golden silk gown. Seeing it, I'd say he more than likely bought from the wrong side of the store. Always, the guy is getting women's and men's clothing confused.

"Good morning District Nine!" announces Rouvin enthusiastically. "Happy Hunger Games!"

_Where's "And may the odds be so ever in your favor?"_

"I assume it's ladies first like always," says Rouvin as he marches over to the first bowl. As he does, I can't help but critique his strides. Besides, if you're going to walk in platforms, you should at least walk in them correctly. Not sounding like someone whose performing a drunken dance at one of the less classier parties we here in the Capitol throw.

"Lora Venere!"

Lora Venere makes her way up to the stage, squeezing and sliding through everyone who is indeed taller than she is. And by everyone, I do mean everyone, because this girl is the definition of short.

When the camera goes in for a close up, I notice her bushy eyebrows for the first time and nearly gasp. Her stylist will have fun transforming those beast into something beautiful. Then, there's the jagged scar that's making her lips look uneven. Hopefully, once she gets here we can fix it, as there's nothing we usually can't fix, or at least hide, when it comes to flaws.

"Is that blood?" asks Meliora.

"What?" I ask, confused and wanting to know what she's talking about. For all I know, Meliora could be hallucinating right now from those five glasses of champagne she drunk.

"Her hands," answers Venn.

I look at her hands, noticing now how she's been digging her nails into her palms. Slowly, blood trickles down her knuckles and onto the floor.

"Next tribute!" exclaims Rouvin.

Retrieving another slip, he's completely unaware of the blood because he steps right in it. I cringe at the thought of having a tribute's blood on any article of my clothing.

"Radison Bombeck!"

Of all the odds, we have a thirteen year old with black hair who steps out of the horde of youngsters. Great.

"Bloodbath," I say immediately, scratching through Radison's name just like I did the others. Sometimes, I'm vocal about my decisions, while other times I tend to just think the word bloodbath rather than say it aloud. Often, it keeps the other Gamemakers on their toes.

"How many is that for you?" asks Florian as he turns back, giving me a competitive eye raise.

"Five," I say. "And you?"

"I'm at seven," he says.

I turn away from Florian and back at the screen, catching Lora and her average looking district partner shaking hands. Right now, it's obvious Radison is trying to put on the act of "just because I'm young doesn't mean I'm not weak" with his stony expression. But we both know its only an act, because if he's like all the other littles before him, he's probably about to piss his pants right about now.

"District Ten in three. . . two. . .one!" cheers Florian.

It's unclear as to why Florian insists on shouting out when the reapings are approaching. Doesn't he get that we're all capable of acknowledging when each reaping has started? There's a reason for the district seals, after all.

District 10's reaping comes with the faint sounds of mooing and bellowing.

District 10's lovely escort, Filomena enters on stage wearing a not so lovely outfit. Whoever told her that brown was the new gold was mistaken, because she reassembles one of the pies in the fields behind the moss covered stage, not the bakery down the street.

After Filomena's small introduction, the suave mayor talks about the treaty of treason, followed by the other pleasantries that come before the tributes are picked. As the mayor continues, I let my eyes fall on the victors, taking the three of them in one at a time. Hogan, Dallin, and Georgette. Dallin being the newest victor; winning only five years ago at sixteen. The two others are pushing close to their late thirties, early forties by now, as their Games were two to three decades ago.

"Let's begin!" chants Filomena, waving a freshly picked slip in the air. "Your female tribute for the 47th Annual Hunger Games is Merris Bradley!"

A girl shrieks, much like Xanthene did a few minutes ago. Walking, she wears a mask of terror, not even tempting to hide it. Water forms in the corner of her eyes, although she does her best to keep them clear and focused on the mayor. For what reason I don't know, but his eyes seem to stick to hers too. Even when she's on the stage, high cheekbones and rounded face in the spotlight for all the cameras to see, you can tell she's doing her best to anchor herself to him. To some sort of familiarity, I guess.

"What a cute dress," says Filomena politely. Her smile seems to be genuine, too, but it could also be the false sparkling teeth that help to add to that façade.

"Thank you," mutters Merris Bradley.

"You're welcome," answers Filomena. Then, she's off again, swishing across the stage in her bizarre assemble.

"Now, for the boys," she says, turning over the slip and reading it aloud. "Dax Landcastor!"

Immediately, a monstrous boy comes barging down the center aisle and up to the stage. The anger he wears is as transparent as glass. But that's not necessarily a bad thing, because it's about time District 10 reaped someone with a little fight in them. When Filomena insists the two shake hands, I make an observation of the boy's large biceps and wide shoulders. And it's nice to see such muscles on a male other than from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Slyly, I smile, comparing the boy from 10 to my previous thoughts about warriors and training.

Hope stirs in me.

Dax is exactly what these outer districts need.

* * *

**Xanthene Oviar (Gamemaker) **

Who knew pregnancy would come with so many restrictions?

No girdles, they say.

No skin dyes, they say.

But how do "they" expect me to look good while carrying this baby?

No coffee, they say.

No alcohol, they say.

But how do "they" expect me to have a good time if I'm too tired to party and too sober to not do anything worth regretting the next morning?

And that's not even the worst part. The worse part is that I'm not allowed to relieve myself at parties. The Doctors warn me that too much vomiting could cause acid reflux, which could later harm the baby. I don't know how, but "they" say it can, so that's one more luxury I've had to sacrifice.

Selfishly, I just want to go ahead a pop this kid out. I'm over this pregnancy, over the stretching of my skin, over the frequent bathroom breaks, and over everyone asking me what I'm going to name it.

Because I have no idea what I want its name to be, much less how I'm even going to raise it when it gets here.

While my husband couldn't wait for us to start a family, all I could do was dread it. With years and years of begging, I finally gave in to his pleas, as he wants them so badly. However, this entire eight months while he's been pouncing for joy, I've been sick and moody and exhausted. Plus, while he's looking at baby names and supplies, I'm out looking for avoxes. Horrible, I know, but it's the truth. I'm anxious for the moment when someone else will have the responsibility of caring for my child; when the frail being is out of my hands completely.

Too many times I've asked myself if I'm even ready to be a mother.

Again, its another question I have no idea how to answer. And instead of facing all the questions that circulate around the baby growing inside me, I turn my attention to the District 11 reaping, relieved that work isn't one of my many restrictions.

District 11 isn't one of my personal favorites. The dark skinned mayor steps down from his podium, and Eladaho or is it Eladio? I always forget. Anyway, Eladio steps up to the stage, skin still extremely patchy from last year.

Last year Eladio tried to dye his skin to match those in District 11. He said he wanted them to feel more comfortable around him, to feel more at home when at the Capitol. Well, it didn't work. Because Eladio turned out to be a few shades darker than all the others, and I think that sort of embarrassed them or something. In other words, the tributes hated Eladio even more last year. I believe the boy tribute even tried to spit on him while he was being escorted into the Justice Building.

"Let's select our first tribute, shall we?" says Eladio, and then before anyone can interrupt, he's prancing over to the bowl and back up to the microphone. "Tucker Keef-"

Eladio freezes, completely baffled by something. "Oh, dear!" he finally exclaims. "Did I grab from the right bowl?"

He must have, because Peacekeepers are already bringing a petite dark skinned girl to the stage, who looks to be just as confused as Eladio does by the whole process. The fear and terror illuminates off her face as bright as a candle. She must realize how long she as to live once her time in the Capitol is up.

"Bloodbath!" screams Florian, and I chuckle. Florian and his childish ways never do get old. At least not to me, anyway.

While Tucker stands there wide eyed and petrified, Eladio seeks out another slip.

"Cidar Rye!" he says into the microphone.

A tall and lanky boy cuts through the crowd, doing his best to seem unfazed by the calling of his name. As he hops up to the stage, he suddenly looses his footing and goes crashing to the floor.

"Are you okay?" cries Eladio.

"Just peachy, Adio," says the boy smugly.

"It's El-a-dio,"

"Okay." replies Cidar Rye, ignoring Eladio's extended hand and taking Tucker O'Keefe's instead. The gesture isn't harsh either, but soft and gentle, almost as if he's already saying that he and his district partner are standing as one. That he plans to ally with the twelve year old. Examining the pair, I wonder why? Why is this boy downing his odds by partnering with such a liability?

"What's he up to?" asks Phoebus.

"I don't know," answers Venn. "But we'll see soon enough."

"What does that mean?" asks Ovidia. The girl, I swear, doesn't have a clue about anything we do here. How did she become Gamemaker again?

Oh wait, I remember. Her uncle is Venn Nardelli.

"It means-" begins Venn.

"Death transforms you," interrupts Meliora softly. "It molds you, like a potter does his clay."

"And what's a potter exactly?" asks Ovidia, still missing the point.

"Can we wrap this up," I say, tired of the walking piece of plastic and her all too many questions. "I need to pee again."

"Someone's a little moody," mutters Klaas.

Of course, I'm a little moody. I'm full of raging hormones.

Pushing away the animosity I have for Klaas and Ovidia, I focus on the District 12's reaping, which I hope will end swiftly. I really have to pee.

"Happy Hunger Games!" says Reveka, her appearing wrinkles hidden beneath flaky, white powder. Once, I made the mistake of walking into her house while she wasn't all dolled up, and can we just say I was horrified at what she looked like. Wrinkles. Baggy eyes. Cracked lips. It wasn't a pretty sight at all.

The mayor doesn't stay at the podium long, as the Treaty of Treason doesn't take much time to to read, nor does a list of one victor.

"As usual, ladies first, " announces Reveka. She smiles, then does her usual timely routine.

Reveka digs down to the very bottom of the glass bowl. Removing one slip, she then takes it back to the microphone, which appears to be collecting coal dust already.

"Thalia Belmont!"

In the eighteen year old section, a dirty blonde calmly steps out of her place between two girls, and doesn't even so much as say a word in the process. She looks emotionless, even passing a hysterical Reveka without so much as a smirk. As she stands there, blonde hair cascading down to her ribcage, she's impossible to read. And I usually can read anyone, seeing as I've been watching and observing tributes for five years now.

"Well, isn't she a downer," admits Reveka to the audience. "Maybe we'll have more personality with our male tribute."

"She's pretty," laughs Klaas as Reveka picks the last tribute for the 47th Annual Hunger Games. Figures he'd be the first person to comment about the girls appearance.

"I agree," add Phoebus. "She has nice skin and beautiful brown eyes."

I ignore their miniature conversation and focus on Reveka as she trots back with the slip of paper wedged between two fingers.

"Eliah Seeton!"

A little girl screams, and Eliah, showing how agile he is already, darts toward her, although he's quickly held back by two Peacekeepers. As he struggles to get loose, he manages to kick one of the Peackeepers, which results in him being slammed to the dirt and restrained. Even with the restraints on, the lusty young man, who I'm guessing got his delicious muscles from sweating in those awful mines, doesn't let the determination waver from his face as he's dragged to the stage. Standing there, brown hair a tangled mess and nose bleeding, he doesn't allow the constraints to bring him down either. If anything, they make him look all the more dangerous, which will definitely work in his favor come tonight and tomorrow.

"I'm liking the looks of District Twelve this year," declares Ovidia obnoxiously. "Especially the boy, as it seems a little manual labor has done his body good." She giggles, and then gets up from her seat with a drooling Klaas tailing right behind her.

"Really-" I begin.

All of a sudden, I feel soaked. I look down at the floor, seeing the puddle of water beneath me. How did that get down there?

Oh, wait. The baby.

* * *

**Deaths will be based upon realism. I will not base my deaths upon reviews, however, I would like to know if you're reading. If you don't care to review, shoot me a PM, letting me know that you haven't abandoned your tribute. Also, be prepared for not "if", but "when" your tribute dies, because there can only be one victor. Honestly, I hope that you'll stick with me even after your tribute has perished. But if not, then I wish you well in your departure.**

**Questions that I'd love to have answers to. **

**Which Gamemaker(s) stood out to you this chapter? **

**Which tribute(s) stood out you this chapter?**

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so I wanted to do something different, bizarre even, so I said why not write about a bunch of self absorbed gamemakers who'll treat the tributes like players instead of people. **

**Oh, and excuse any format errors. My Doc Manager is acting sketchy. Plus, I'll have the Mentor's Blog up shortly, so I'll be adding mentors to your tributes. **

* * *

**Au Revior By: OneRepublic**

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**Like always: Read, review, but most importantly, enjoy. :) **


	4. Round and Round

**Round and Round**

_We are a part of the same play. We think we're making our own way._

* * *

**Eliah Seeton, ****_District 12 Male_**

Welcome to hell. No, better yet, welcome to the first three hours of my own personal hell.

"Can you lean your head back a little, please?" asks my frivolous looking stylist, Damia.

Grudgingly I do what she says, tilting my head back slightly so that she can continue ripping out what little hairs are left in my nostrils.

"Thank you," Damia says, smiling.

I ignore her genuine thank you and focus solely on the purple lipstick that stains her left front tooth. You'd think as many times as these people look in the mirrors, admiring and praising their bizarre complexions, that she'd seen the crud on her tooth my now. Yet, she hasn't. And who am I to be the bearer of such bad news?

Besides, I'm pretty sure she'd have a meltdown if I mentioned anything about her appearance. Because from what I've seen so far, given only a few hours with the band of rejects known as my prep team, I'd say these people don't take too kindly to constructive criticism.

"This might tickle, okay?" giggles Damia as she lowers the sliver tweezers down to my nose. Then, when she has them in position, she flicks her wrist in one swift motion. Instantly, my eyes start to water with the movement, and then I find myself leaning up rapidly, nearly head butting Damia along the way.

What is she trying to do exactly? And is ripping out nose hairs always this uncomfortable?

"I thought you said it'd tickle," I mutter, annoyed with the amount of tears gliding down my cheek.

"It does!" beams Damia as she prepares for another round of torturing me with her tiny instruments.

"But it doesn't," I counter, my voice as harsh as I mean it to be. Right now, I'm over this. I'm over the body waxing, the trimming, and the feminine scented lotion that's still clogging my nose from the bath. I mean, who wants to smell like roses, anyway?

And now, without so much as another thought, I'm sliding my feet over the edge of the odd shaped chair and standing. The coolness of the floor soaks into my feet. I smile as the cold reminds me of the winters back in District 12.

Winters in District 12 hold some of the best memories I have. Specifically, I remember my father and I taking in handfuls of snow to melt in mom's ole dinted kettle. Over the years I've learned that warm water is better than an empty belly on chilly nights. Courtesy of my father, of course. Thinking of him, a familiar quote comes to mind, "I'd take cold toes over gnats any day", and I smile. A second smile at that, too.

"What was that?" asks Damia.

"Nothing," I say, unsure as to what she's talking about.

"You said something," adds Damia, a look of curiosity replacing the previous expression of deep concentration.

Great. I must've accidentally said something aloud again. "I didn't say anything."

"Sure you did!" says Damia giddily. "I heard you."

Instead of answering, I move closer to the door. There has to be a way out of this place, I'm sure of it. But then again, where will I go once I leave? It isn't like I can strut out of this place without a care in the world. After all, I'm no longer a "free" civilian of Panem anymore, but a tribute in the 47th Annual Hunger Games. No, better yet, I'm a player now. A player in a crass game that will decide if I live or die, if I kill or if I'm killed.

Future thoughts scramble in and out of my head, like rats from their holes when it becomes dinnertime back home. What am I going to do once I enter the Hunger Games? Surely, I'll kill someone when the time comes, won't I? The only questions are when and how, I suppose. When will the time come when my innocence is loss along with the life I've taken? And how can I prepare myself mentally for the treacherous things I'm about to do? How can I teach myself to cope with the guilt that I know can consume me if I let it?

_You cant, _says a faint voice inside my head, reminding me of the victors I've seen crumble on national television.

Oh, but I have to.

* * *

**Castor Ortega**, **_District 2 Male._**

The suit feels too tight. Or according to my stylist, Adira, the sleek, grey fabric just hugs me in all the right places. Yet, if you ask me, the longer I prance around in this leotard looking contraption, the more and more I feel my dignity and self worth being sucked right out of me. What will the guys back at Saunders Academy say when they see me wearing this tonight during the Parade?

After looking in the mirror briefly, I realize there isn't one piece of my body that isn't outlined by the material, and that itself makes my skin coil. How could I be so unlucky as to get a stylist who isn't trying to work the warrior angle, but the seductive one? Isn't it the District 1 tributes who get the luxury of wearing these undesirable costumes, not us?

Yes, it is. So why am I the one who has to deal with this kind of scrutiny in the Remake Center? Doesn't Adira know that I'm a tribute from District 2? That I'm a volunteer who's here to bring pride and honor to his district, not disgrace.

"Now for your armor and helmet, sweetheart," coos Adira. Her purple lips curve into a wide, unnatural smile. One that I know I'll never forget. Mainly because Adira has worn the thing quite frequently today. Especially during those moments when I laid starch naked on the table for her. Somehow, my prep team had forgotten to provide me with a thin robe to change into and Adira had forgotten to ask for one.

While tugging the armor over my chest, Adira suddenly pauses, allowing time for another disturbing grin to paint her face.

Anxiousness seizes my stomach as I watch her step back, quickly skimming my tense body up and down. What is she up to this time?

"Is it cold in here?" Adira asks, still grinning ear to ear.

Befuddled, I shake my head, adding, "No, why?" along with it.

"Well," Adira chuckles, "Your nipples seem to be saying differently."

Heat flushes my face. This cannot be happening to me, can it? I'm supposed to be receiving the best of the best, considering our status with the Capitol. Our tributes are always highly respected amongst the masses, but this lady doesn't even know the meaning of the word. If she did, she would've never said anything so absurd and out of place here and now.

"I didn't mean to get you all flustered, Mr. Ortega," says Adira shockingly. "I was just pointed out an observation."

Sure you were, Adira.

Harshly, I swallow down the remaining embarrassment as Adira finishes my costume. _Only a few more hours and I'll be back in my element_, I tell myself when she giggles again. Soon I'll be doing what volunteers like myself do best.

Finally, Adira leads me out of the room. Walking down the brightly lit hallway my hearts starts to pound and I feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins in sporadic bursts. When the doors swing open, the excitement of the crowd overtakes me. This is the day my dreams work their way into reality.

"Castor!" cheers Neith as she saunters over my way. "I've missed you!"

"Hello, Neith," I reply stiffly.

"Oh," Neith pouts. Though, her focus quickly changes from me to a strand of blonde hair that's already lost its curl. "Is everything okay?"

Technically, it's obvious my district partner has no attachment to me. The puzzling thing, however, is that she tries to pretend she does. Many, and I do mean many, have seen straight through her act of ingenuity back at the academy. Now, it seems I'm getting a personal glimpse of it myself.

"Yes," I answer flatly, although my mind is reeling from all the emotions bubbling inside. "I'm fine. Uh, thrilled to be here." I do my best to smile, to prevent my expression from betraying my words.

Truly, I'm thrilled to be here. I'm just not one for theatrics and such. During my volunteering interview, Atticus told me that my charisma was the one thing I needed to improve on. He'd said I needed to be a little more charismatic in order to gain the crowd. And now, I can only hope I won't disappoint when faced with the challenge.

"You don't seem so thrilled to me," says Neith matter-o-factly. "Care to talk about it?"

What part of "I'm fine" doesn't she understand?

"No," I say as I step up into the chariot. "Besides, don't you think we should save all the talking for the arena?"

A bright white smile finds Neith's face as she hops up into the chariot next to me. Wrapping her arm around my bicep, she laughs sweetly, "Castor, I don't think we'll be doing much chitchatting then."

And she's right. I doubt I say much of anything once the gong sounds.

* * *

**Tucker Keefe, _District 11 Female_**

"And that's when the boy, the one with the pale hair and ghostly blue eyes, received sixty lashes," I continue on with the story, my enthusiasm building more and more as Cidar's eyes light up with either curiosity or dread, I can't tell.

"By lash forty-two there was blood everywhere!" I nearly shout. Cidar's face contorts, his gaze shifting down a little with my gruesome tale. "Not to mention, his flesh was all matted and hanging off him like thin strips of paper. Never, in all my ten years, had I seen flesh hang so loosely, but his was. It looked barely attached or something."

I expect Cidar to interrupt me, like my friends back home would when I started to get into the grotesque details. Surprisingly, they always wanted more of the blood and gory, unlike the few merchant friends I had. The townie kids always had weak stomachs, so most times I kept my graphics to a minimum when they were around. A few splatters of blood there, a little ripped skin here; nothing too insufferable for their tummies to handle.

With no objections, I go to continue my tale. I'm only a few seconds away from the best part, too, so I wonder what Cidar will think. Maybe he'll like the ending as much as Durian does.

"On lash fifty-eight the head peacekeeper had to replace his whip, because of all the blood the other had absorbed. He'd said something along the lines of, "Hey, you! Bring me another whip so I can get a better grip!" I chuckle at my own joke. Well done, Tuck! You nailed the punch line perfectly!

Cidar, on the other hand, doesn't get the punch line, or the fact that I've created a rhyme off the top of my head. Instead, he just sits there staring at me, looking almost unsure of the whole situation_. Was it something I said?_ I secretly ask myself.

By now I'm used to people getting a little antsy around my words. Still, I'm puzzled by Cidar's expression. For some reason, I thought he was different from those I went to school with. I just assumed he was more like us kids on the streets. Desensitized and undisturbed.

"Tuck," Cidar finally says to me, his voice light and free from his comical tone. "Do you remember the peacekeepers' name?"

The peacekeepers' name? Why would I remember his name? The story isn't about the man doing the beating, but the boy taking it.

"Nope," I chuckle. "I can barely remember what he looked like."

That's a lie. I know exactly what the burly, dark skinned man looked like, but I'm not about to tell Cidar just yet. Something is up, and before I tell him anymore of my exciting, blood pounding tales, he has a few to tell me himself.

Cidar's face distorts again, but this time he quickly masks it, his expression returning to the bubbly one I got to know on the train ride here.

"So, Tuck," Cidar begins, a mischievous smile on his face. "What's your take on the two cows in front of us?"

I look forward, catching a glimpse of the District 10 tributes in their brown cow suits before a burst of lights clouds my vision. Instinctively, my hand goes for my eyes. Using the sleeve of my costume, I do my best to shield them from the blinding light.

"What's happening?" I ask. My heart feels as though it's about to hammer into my ribcage.

"It's starting," laughs Cidar as he adjusts his straw hat. "Us tomato farmers are about to hit the spotlight."

The laugh that squeezes past my lips is a shaky one. I do my best to smile, but the nerves bundling inside get the best of me. I've never minded so many people watching me before, so what's the big deal now? What's so different from the kids back home and the people out there in the crowd?

"Tuck, look alive," nudges Cidar, a cheeky grin on his narrow face. "We have to show these people just how dangerous we are. Here, take a tomato."

I take a tomato from the small wooden basket that my stylist insisted I carry. Ideally, it's supposed to make me look even more naïve and childish to the Capitol citizens.

With the tomato in hand, I ask, "What am I supposed to do with this? Throw it?"

"No, don't throw it!" Cidar snorts obnoxiously. "What are you trying to do? Get us killed before the Games even begin?"

No, I'm not. But I assumed that's what you do with ripe, juicy tomatoes.

"So," I start, taking account of the District 7 chariot as it vanishes into the lights. "What are we supposed to do with it then?"

"Eat it, of course," says Cidar bluntly. "You can't expect to wow these crazies on an empty stomach, can you?"

_Really? _I think grimly. An empty stomach is the least of my concerns right about now.

* * *

**Radison Bombeck, _District 9 Male_**

I don't wave to the crowd as they scream my name. My face remains stoic, my eyes fixated on the approaching podium.

What's the point of waving to these people, anyway?

I know everyone back in District 9 expects me to be the young, carefree, adventurous boy that danced around the grain fields during break hours, or the one who snuck in and out of the bakery with a pocket full of candy after each visit. And I'm sure the Capitol expects me to act similar to the boy from District 6, who smiled and waved and melted their hearts with his baby face and freckles.

But again, what's the point?

What's the point of using cuteness to my advantage? When all cuteness does it get you a few sympathy cries when you're killed during the bloodbath. Frankly, it doesn't even guarantee you sponsors while your life is dangling by a thread. That said, I'd rather work an angle that not too many my age have the guts to attempt. An angle that I'm sure can get me more than a few tears of sympathy.

You see, I'd rather be stoic then charismatic, or mysterious rather than adorable. I need to do things that are going to get me noticed. And how is doing something that every other thirteen year old in the history of the Hunger Games has done going to do just that?

It won't. I'll just fade into the faces. Another child that people in my district weep for as the countdown begins.

And I refuse for that to be the case. I refuse to admit that I'm not as strong and deadly as the twenty one tributes that are older than me. Yes, I may be smaller, but that doesn't mean my blade is any less sharp.

"Radison!" beams Lora Venere, my delusional district partner. Since the reaping, she's acted as though this is a vacation instead of a death sentence. Constantly, she seems to daydream or lose interest when our mentors, Mizar Aldjoy and Jamilee Lapworth give us crucial advice on how to survive once we're in the arena.

"Yes," I answer politely.

"You need to wave some!" she continues, her body bouncing up and down as her hands swing wildly. She expects, like so many others, for me to mirror her actions.

Well, I don't. I continue on with my emotionless act. Eyes forward and jaw clenched.

"Radison, come on!" begs Lora as she attempts to take my hand and hoist it up in the air along with hers. At her icy touch, I snatch mine away.

"Please don't," I say firmly. "This is my choice, my plan, and my life. I'll do what I think is best for me and you do the same."

"Whatever," deadpans Lora. "It's your funeral."

Without another word, I detach myself from Lora completely. After all, someone like her can only get someone like me killed. For Lora is too careless, too delusional, and too reckless, to understand the consequences that come with every choice during these games.

Our chariot starts to slow. Then, there's District 8 appearing in front of us abruptly. Their colorful costume of patchworks standing out much more that the golden wardrobe we've been forced to wear.

Looking past the District 8 tributes, who appear to be standing extremely far apart from each other, I see President Snow. The sight of him sends a shiver up my spine. To look so normal, a man in his early thirties with slicked back blonde hair and blue eyes, he radiates something abnormal. But then again, I know that's the fear talking.

Of all the people in Panem, he's the one I fear most. He controls this whole game of killed or be killed. And honestly, I don't know what I'm afraid of most. Seeing the face of my future killer or meeting the man who has orchestrated the will behind it?

"He's so pale," whispers Lora. I do my best not to roll my eyes. "You'd think he was already dead or something."

The chariots begin to move again, escorting us back down the runaway and away from our adoring fans. As our chariot steers to the left, entering back through the gates, I hear someone call my name.

A burst of hope floods my chest and I smile.

The plan. Its working already.

* * *

**Arleigh Keller, _District 7 Female_ **

The chariot comes to halt when we're finally back inside the Training Center. Before stepping down from my luxurious ride, I take a quick glance back at Nash, who's fidgeting with the bush around his waist. Of all the costumes this year, ours definitely has to be the worst.

Each year, our stylist find a way to make our tributes look like trees. This year, they've insisted on painting our skin brown and placing bundles of leaves around our waist and chest. Or at least my chest, as Nash's stylist has left his bare. My guess is she's hoping his trim body will score him a few sponsors.

The District 1 tributes pass us by; their bodies dipped in shimmering gold paint. Immediately, I feel the root of envy burying deep inside me. Oh, if only I could wear something like that. Something beautiful, something eye catching, something people remember. I'd rather be anything but a tree at this point.

Why?

Because trees are never awed upon or called beautiful, they're only cut down and burned.

"Arleigh?" asks Nash.

"Yes," I say, turning to see him. When our eyes meet, he blushes, a subtle red smearing over his tan cheeks.

"Can you help me with something?" he asks. I notice now that his hands are gripped firmly around the cluster of leaves.

"Sure," I say. I'm more than happy to help anyone, really. Especially now, seeing as a favor could save my life in future events. Plus, you'd be an idiot to think any act of kindness here is free. When you help someone in the arena or even now, you obviously want something in return. A favor equals a debt, period. And a debt is something that I'm counting on my allies to pay when it comes time to keep me safe and sound.

"Good," breathes Nash, "Because I'm pretty sure I've ripped the back end of my costume off."

He what?! Is this some sort of joke?

"How?" I ask.

"I caught it on the side of the chariot, I think," replies Nash quietly, backing up against the chariot. His brown eyes find mine, pleading for me to help him do something, anything before our competition catches on to his wardrobe malfunction.

More red flushes through Nash's face as I step closer.

"You have to let me see," I say, doing my best to make him feel more comfortable, not to mention, stifle the laughter building in my throat. I knew the material was thin, but how can this even be possible?

"No," Nash squeaks, his voice an octave higher than usual. "Just go see where Lige or my stylist is and ask if they can bring a blanket or sheet."

How am I supposed to find them, though? Can I just walk out of here, or is there some unknown rule preventing us from leaving without our mentors?

"Okay," I say. Slowly I reach out and touch his shoulder, the yearning to give him a hug coming alive. "It's going to be alright. No one is going to see, I promise."

Nash nods, and then I turn to make my way across the Training Center in search for Lige or his stylist, Penza. I think that's her name.

I've only taken a few steps when I see Lige's brown hair and scowl come into view.

"Lige!" I call out, my voice much louder than I intend it to be. The tributes from District 9 and 10 turn and stare, with the monstrous boy from the later district giving me a smirk. There, I feel like curling in a ball. I suddenly feel terribly afraid of what the others think of me, if I'm already attracting targets on my back by being so noisy.

Lige comes my way, a look of annoyance on his face.

"What are you doing?" he asks, more annoyance ripping through his voice.

"Nash needs you," I say, hoping he'll show some concern for his tribute instead of scolding me.

"Oh," he mouths. "Where is he?"

"Over there," I explain. "He's by the chariot!"

"Settle down," growls Lige as he lowers his head so that we can exchange eye contact. "You're talking too loud. Try to whisper, if you can, that is."

I don't know if Lige means to offend me, but he does. And before I can think of something witty to say back, Michon and Cleanth are standing there, waiting for an explanation.

"You three go ahead," suggests Lige. "I'll hang back with Nash and see what's up with him."

Before I can object, Cleanth is tugging me by the arm. "Come along, sweetie. He'll bring Curls on up shortly."

As I'm being drug across the floor, I have just enough time to turn around and catch a glimpse of Nash.

"I owe you," Nash mouths to me in the brief seconds we hold eye contact.

Yes, you do, Curls. Yes, you do.

* * *

**Kiah Mirelle, _District 4 Female_ **

"Kiah!"

I turn around to see Neith Mortici. A bright white smile on her face and blonde hair bouncing as she makes her way over to me.

"I just wanted to introduce myself," says Neith pleasantly. "You know, before everyone else got the chance to."

_Where's her district partner, Castor Ortega?_ I think. _Or better yet, where's her mentor?_ Isn't it a little bizarre that she's here. . . alone.

"Hi," I say. "I'm Kiah."

"Such a beautiful name," coos Neith as her attention drifts over to my left. What's she looking at? I wonder. "Exotic is it?"

"I'm not sure," I laugh. All I know is that my mother adored the name. Thought it to have a nice upscale ring to it.

"Well," replies Neith brightly. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning, Kiah. Sleep well! Tootles!"

I watch as Neith prances over to Bastian, repeating the same process with him that she did to me. The only difference is that she seems to laugh more with Bastian. Also, she asks to feel his biceps, which he gladly accepts, nearly ripping off his shirt in the process to roll up the seaweed attached to his sleeves.

Sighing, I walk over to Bastian, who is still being felt up my Neith, though I don't think he minds too much. Guys like Bastian tend to like girls who flaunt all over them and go to other extremes to get their attention. Personally, I'm not one of those girls. Never have been, and hopefully, never will be. I take pleasure in getting to know someone by just being myself. No facades. No foolishness.

"Excuse me," I say, interrupting Neith in the middle of her compliment towards Bastian.

"Yep," Bastian says. His sea green eyes shift downward, blatantly attempting to look down my shirt for the eighth time today.

"I think-" I begin.

"Bastian! Kiah!" calls Muscida. "We're heading to the elevator now!"

Bastian dismisses himself without so much as a bye to Neith, who seems to take it personally as she huffs loudly.

"We'll see you tomorrow," I say, waving and smiling. Then, I turn and follow quickly behind Bastian's footsteps.

Inside the elevator, Muscida waste no time prepping us for tomorrow's introductions.

"Don't trust One or Two," she says harshly.

"Muscida," interrupts Mags. "I think that's a given, considering what they've done to us these past couple of years."

Since the 41st Annual Hunger Games, Districts 1 and 2 have taken it upon themselves to eliminate our tributes first when it comes to cannibalizing the alliance. Even with Muscida's complaints to the other mentors, things haven't changed. And now, we're all starting to wonder back in Four if it isn't so much the tributes themselves targeting us, but the mentors. Really, it makes complete sense. Killing our tributes first, gives Districts 1 and 2 a better chance of bringing home a victor.

"I know its Atticus," growls Muscida as she dashes out of the elevator and into our living quarters. "He's the one who's been instructing the other members of the pack to turn cannibal on us first."

Before the bell chimes, or Muscida decides to lock us all in the elevator, we each exit and then follow her over to the indigo colored couch.

"If so," starts Mags, taking a seat. "Why don't our tributes just go solo this year? The academy has trained Kiah well, so I'm sure she's more than capable of surviving on her own."

At the praise, I shoot Mags a smile of gratitude. Mother would be proud of this moment, and I know it. She'd love the idea of a victor speaking so highly of me. In addition, I love the idea of a victor speaking so highly of me, too. It's nice to receive recognition for the time and effort I've put into my training. For the dedication I've given to Selkirk Academy over the years. Because back in District 4, training is what I love, it's what I'm most passionate about, and it brings me great joy to know that someone recognizes that finally.

"That's still four on two," counters Muscida. Two? That's assuming that Bastian can hold his on against the other Careers. "So as much as I hate to say this, we need Districts One and Two for now. However, I will say that I have a plan this year. One that I know Atticus will never see coming."

The grin that swims across Muscida's lips is enough to bring chills to my skin. To me, Muscida has always been a little . . . well . . . unstable.

"What do you propose then, Muscida?" asks Mags, her voice soft and patient.

Musida's grin widens, warping her wrinkled face, "I suggest that we cannibalize the alliance first."

I swallow harshly at the words. I've always thought I'd be prepared for every obstacle I'd come across during my Games, whether it be social and survival skills, or fighting and fishing. I thought I'd be sure of myself, too. But standing here now, I'm not so sure I can do what Muscida asks. I'm not so sure I can eliminate four other trained killers on command.

* * *

**Cordin Gerick, _District 3 Male_ **

"Are you two up for an alliance together?" Beetee asks both Maven and I.

Before Maven can even digest the question, I'm answering, my mind made clear on where my district partner and I stand since the moment she shook my hand at the reaping.

"No," I say kindly. "I prefer to find my own allies, but thank you for the suggestion."

"Sure," says Beetee. "I'm only here to help." He nods, and then takes his plate from the table. No doubt, he's going to check on Wiress again. To see if she's recovered from the mental breakdown she had last night during the recap. If I was a betting man, I'd put money on the fact that's she's never going to recover. That she'll forever be someone who is broken.

I guess that's something to look forward to, right? To end up being broken, used, or mentally unstable after you've done all you can to live. Sounds like a great life, doesn't it?

See, I've always found in saddening, that as much as the victors try to hide their demons, they're still in plain sight. Every year we get to see their flaws, whether it be through a bite of the lip or a stray tear. Even the Career districts have those who are shackled by the things they did in their Games. Or so I'm told.

"Gerick," Maven spits. "Can I ask why you were so quick to deny me as an ally?"

Let's see, for starters you nearly broke my hand at the reaping. That acknowledged, if you wanted to be allies with someone you'd make for a better first impression. In fact, you'd probably be more pleasant, not cold and standoffish.

But can I blame her for wanting to cut ties with people as soon as possible? For being cold and standoffish and having an agenda already established?

Going into this I have to realize that only one of us can win, which means it isn't a good idea to form friendships and bonds. It's better to find people to use, I think. Because like in all Games, you have your pawns and your players. I choose to be a player.

"Nothing against you," I laugh lightly, attempting to smooth over my lie with false humor. "But I need to find allies that I can personally outwit and outlast, and I'm not so sure I can do that with."

"Hmm," Maven hums, "I guess you aren't as incompetent as I thought you were."

Seems you're more incompetent than I thought you were.

"Anyway," I say awkwardly, giving the ole subject change a go. "Do you know if Beetee will be mentoring us both?"

Maven shrugs, "I honestly don't care who my mentor is as long as they get me sponsors."

"I agree with you completely," I mutter.

Maven cocks her head, her dark eyes scanning me and up and down for a few seconds. "So, tell me a little about yourself, Gerick. I'm curious about how interesting your life was prior to this once and a life time adventure."

Why? It's the first question that comes to mind. Why should I tell her anything about me? My business is mine alone. Besides, I don't even know this girl. Much less, I don't even think I like her.

"How about we take turns?" I suggest, doing my best to remain on good terms with my temperamental district partner. "I'll give you a minute detail about me. . . and well . . . you can do the same."

"I'd rather not," answers Maven, a look of boredom on her face.

"Fine," I say, growing agitated.

Gradually, I'm losing what little patience I have with her. But, and I reminded myself of this back on the train ride when she dug under my skin with her eye rolls and self absorbed attitude, patience is something that I need in order for me to think logically. Unlike before, I can't allow myself to make foolish calls due to emotions.

Emotions. Now, those could be the spark that destroys everything.

* * *

**Ryker Brunel, _District 6 Female_ **

Sunlight creeps into the room, stirring me from my slumber. Propping up on one elbow, I turn to look at the other side of the bed. The space that's there. I've never seen so much of it. Back home, I'd be lucky to have a mattress with the width to hold my slim frame, much less one that gave me rolling room. Yet here, this bed could hold three of me easily.

_Sure_, I think grimly, _give those of use on our death sentence plenty of room to toss and turn while we face the nightmares._

I get out of bed, walking across the prickly feeling carpet and over to the set of clothes my stylist has laid out for me. Sliding into the tight fitting pants and lose shirt, I then brush my teeth and tie up my straggly hair before stepping out into the hallway. Mine as well make myself look presentable for my murderer, yeah?

At breakfast, I find Louther, Pallis, and Laec already eating. Without so much as a good morning, I have a seat and beginning piling on the food: fluffy white eggs, greasy strips of bacon, and toast smothered with some sort of yellow tinted jam.

"Did you sleep well?" asks Pallis as she puts down her fork and whips away gently the grease surrounding her lips.

"Yes," I lie. I forget to mention the nightmares I have about the Games or the tears that came from missing my mother.

My throat tightens when I look to Laec. With splotchy read cheeks and puffy red eyes there's no doubt he's been crying. The only difference between us is that I've managed to hide my weakness while he showcases his.

"You nervous, Ryker?" asks Louther. Before answering I have a quick glance at his pupils, curious to see if they're as dilated as they were last night. You'd think a victor would know better than to abuse the drug that kills so many in our district. Then again, age doesn't necessarily make us wise, does it?

"Nope," I lie again, letting the second one spill off my tongue as easy as the first. Really, what's the point of telling them if I'm nervous or not? It isn't like they can help me with my anxiety, anyway? They're mentors, not doctors.

"How is everyone today?" Marius enters the room, hulky physique barely fitting into his tight shirt. I imagine all the Capitol women here want to sleep with the physical masterpiece, yet I'd be happy to just strangle him. After all, it was his hand that got me here.

"Personally, I'm a lot better now," teases Pallis.

"Oh, I bet you are!" laughs Marius, giving Pallis a wink before he steps over to Laec and I. "You two ready to get down to business?"

Is that what they call killing these days? Getting down to business.

"Sure," I mutter. Laec on the other hand, just nods.

After goodbyes from our mentors, Marius leads us over to the elevator. Inside, I can't help but muffle my groans as I watch him wink at his own reflection. I've never understood how people could be so stuck on appearances. That, however, is coming from a girl who's always been nothing to look at.

When the doors open, Marius dashes out the elevator with jet-like speed. I go to do the same, but a sharp tug catches me and I turn around to find Laec clutching to my shirt.

"Sorry," he blushes.

"No worries," I say, voice tightening. I can't imagine how he feels being one of the youngest and smallest tributes here. Part of me wonders if he knows he won't be coming back home to his family. If he knows he has no chance in surviving these cruel games we're all forced to play.

"Can I ask you a question?" asks Laec softly. The frighten look in his hazel eyes makes me want to hug him, which is a big deal, considering I'm not the hugging type.

"Ask away," I answer.

Laec smiles, although it doesn't touch his eyes. "Should I be afraid?"

Yes, you should. You should be afraid of everyone, especially the vile girl in front of you. If only he knew what I've done. What mistakes I've made, then he'd probably cower away from me instead of clutching to my shirt.

Instead of telling him the truth, I lie. Something I've learned to do quite well. "No, you should be happy."

"Why?" he asks. "What's there to be happy about?"

Nothing. There's nothing to be happy about.

"Well, your not dead yet for starters," I say jokingly.

"Yeah," replies Laec.

"Plus," I start, searching for the right words to say this time. "You've found yourself your first ally, kid."

The words come off my tongue so suddenly that I feel sick. What did I just say? No, I have to twist this back around. I need to lie. I need to say something, anything, that'll reverse the plan I've just put into action.

I go to speak, to say something that will counter the whole offer. But when I look at Laec's face and the hope that washes over it, my mind goes blank. Can I really be this cruel?

"Really?" beams Laec. "You want to be allies with me?"

"Really," I mimic, ignoring the twisting in my gut. "I do."

The words are again false. A lie that I'm telling because the truth is too ugly. The real me right along with it.

* * *

**Cartier Rappaport, _District 1 Male_**

The light skinned man, Kostis raises on his platform once we've all entered the room. Standing there, I do my best to mimic the stance of both Castor Ortega and Bastian Prewiitt. I copy them in the same ways I did the other male trainees back at Witz' Institute for the Gifted: hardened jaw, clenched fist, and chest pushed out.

As Kostis starts to speak, I find myself slipping away. My thoughts filled with my family and the winery.

"Cartier," whispers Kendra as she trails her fingers down my arm. Her touch causes goosebumps to prick my skin. Since when did my body become so weak to physical touch?

"Cartier?" asks Kendra, twirling a piece of blonde hair with her fingers. "Is anyone home in there?" She giggles, and I wonder what it'd be like to be the person who causes that beautiful sound.

"I'm here," I say, racking my mind for the words I have memorized. The words my grandfather told me to use if I ever wanted to spare them. "What's up, beautiful?"

"Kostis dismissed us," she says, laughing. "And while everyone else is already gone, you're still standing here."

Crud. I was?

I scoff, my false confidence coming back with a vengeance. Another slip up like this Cartier and your chances of going home are nothing, mere ripples in an ocean. "Oh, well what's the rush?" I ask.

"We only have a few days," replies Kendra playfully. "And personally, I want to put as much training in as possible, although it isn't like I need it, of course." Her eyes shift with the words, the movement leeching the arrogance right out of the sentence.

Honestly, I didn't see Kendra around at the Institute much. Which means she was either enlisted in a lower skilled training class, or I wasn't at all perceptive of the fine things that strutted the halls. More than likely I'd say the latter is true, since I'm a little oblivious at times.

"Sounds like you're doubting yourself a little, babe," I laugh, and then slide a wink in for good measure. _Isn't that how people flirt?_ I ask myself. Using their eyes and mouths to say things that words cannot?

Kendra snorts. "Please, doubting yourself is something the District Four tributes do."

Speaking of the District 4 tributes, Kiah Mirelle comes walking our way with Bastian Prewitt not far behind. Before the introductions can begin, Neith Mortici and her sullen district partner, Castor Ortega are here, with the former overly bubbly.

"Hello everyone, I'm Neith Mortici," greets Neith with the same bright smile she wore last night. I'm beginning to think its the only one she has. "And this hunk right here." Neith gestures to Castor, who seems to be taken aback by the spotlight. "Is your lovely and talented leader Castor Ortega!"

At the notion, Neith bounces up and down, clapping her hands together passionately. Already she's seems to be trying just as hard as me to camouflage something.

"Neith!" growls Castor. "What are you doing? I didn't even say that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Bastian cut Kiah a glance before he smirks. Instantly, my curiosity is at its peak. What is he smirking about? And what does that look mean exactly? I'll have to ask Vermillion later, and if I'm lucky, he'll have the time to explain.

"Yes, you did," whines Neith. "You told me that Atticus had designated you leader while riding in the elevator."

Atticus? I thought Vermillion said that he was becoming too sickly to be involved in Career Pack politics.

"No, I didn't!" fumes Castor. "I never said anything to you inside the elevator!"

"Easy, man," warns Bastian. "That's not how you speak to a lady."

"Oh, this is grand," chuckles Kendra as she finds her way over to me, wrapping her arm around mine as the two boys exchange stoney glares. Before things can become concerning though, Castor shifts his eyes to the floor, and then storms off to the sword and axe station.

You'd think silence would blossom in between us, but it doesn't. Because soon Neith is speaking again.

"I'm so, so, so terribly sorry," apologizes Neith with much emphasis on the "so". "Clearly, I was wrong in thinking he wanted everything to be told up front."

Clearly, there's something more going on here than what meets the eye. Because if Castor was as arrogant and controlling as Neith makes him out to be, then why would he storm away, fleeing the battle rather than fighting it? Something isn't adding up here. And if someone like me can see it, I'm sure the others can too.

"Its fine," reassures Kiah. Until now, I'd actually forgotten she was even here. Oops.

"No, it's not," says Neith defiantly. "Like a ditz, I've ruined everything!"

Instead of replying, Bastian takes Neith by the hand gently, ushering her over to the throwing knife station. When there's enough distance between us and them, I hear Kiah breathe out heavily. At the sound, every part of my being screams to give these two remaining ladies a simple smile. Desperately, I want to them to see the soft, considerate guy, not the arrogant, pompous jerk who calls them "babe" and "beautiful". Yet, the only problem is that's the part of myself my grandfather told me to hide. And if I want them to be free, Ill have to do just that.

* * *

**Seydre Lyren, _District 5 Female_**

I flip through the freshly bounded books, skimming through all the sections until I find _Antibacterial Herbs: Fight Infections and Kill Bacteria_.

Once on the page, I begin cruising through all the roots, weeds, leafs, seeds, and balms that can offer me any assistance when it comes to fighting off an infection. Only a few of them stick out.

Making notes, I write down the name of the plant and the benefit it can give me.

Evergreen Balm - treats colds, coughs, cuts, and muscle aches.

Calendula - good for cuts, scraps, bruises, and minor wounds.

Yarrow - used to control fever and bleeding.

Finished, I stuff the note in my pocket and take off towards the sword station.

You see, it'd be illogical to think one could know all there is to know about plants, yet have no training when it comes to defense. After all, outwitting the other twenty-three tributes is only half the battle here. I also have to outlast them, which seems more plausible if I can get my hands on a sword.

When I was young, I used to pretend sticks were swords. I thought myself to be quite handy with the wooden blade, too. It was only as I grew older that I started to doubt my said skills. Not necessarily doubt, but more so I received estranged looks from passing strangers, which caused to me to hesitate when it came to indulging into my imagination. My guess is it wasn't everyday that someone saw a fifteen year old out in the streets thrashing about with a tree limb the size of a femur.

It wasn't until some wretched old man called me "loopy" that I really began to question if my maturity was up to par with those my age. Taking in account what I saw others do, I begin to form a thesis and questions as to someone like myself should act. Sure, I enjoyed reading and writing and obtaining all the knowledge the shabby school back in Five granted to me, but I also enjoyed the thrilling tales inside my head. I desired the escape only my imagination could give me.

And did that make me loopy? If honest, I wasn't sure. But I was determined to find out.

Eventually, I did find what I was looking for, although it didn't help at all with the uncertainty churning in my gut. Through looking and studying others my age, I discovered that as human beings we're all unique. That we all have our own ways, with our own habits, speaking patterns, and likes and dislikes. Thus, it be quite frivolous of me to compare myself to someone who was indeed quite different, even in the smallest ways. In the end, I guess you can say I learned to accept myself for who I was. Loopy or not, it didn't matter.

At the sword station, I pick up one of the lighter, dainty looking ones. It should be easy enough to swing and carry, much like my stick back home was. Next, I walk over to the closest dummy and take aim. In order to get a clean kill I'll need to stab directly in the chest, neck, or head.

With one precise flick of the wrist, I swish the blade upward, carving it into the dummy's chest and causing and array of red feathers to burst into the air. Then, I quickly jump backwards, adrenaline rushing through my veins like water, and reposition my feet. From there, I go straight for the head. And without fail the sword connects, adding more feathers to the grey floor.

Triumphant, I smirk. Who's to say practicing with that stick was so loopy after all.

* * *

**Merris Bradley, _District 10 Female_**

The girl from District 5 doesn't stop swinging the skeletal looking blade until the dummy is nothing but mere feathers and shredded pieces of foam. Briefly, I thought about approaching her in hope of gaining an ally. But that was before I noticed the lack of self control she has.

Over the years, I've realized it doesn't take a real human being to swing a blade, but to stop it. To know when enough is enough.

Taking to the shadows, I quietly make my way over to the snare station. Georgette insisted that it was in my best interest to be forgettable. So far, her wishes haven't been too hard act out. Hide in the shadows. Slink back behind Dax, allowing people to put the target on him. Avoid the weapon stations.

At the snare station I don't do much. Mainly I fuddle around with the wire Telus, the cheerful snare station instructor, gives me, forming it into something ideal for catching small wild game.

"Merris!" a booming voice calls from across the floor. Instantaneously, my hands tighten around the wire. What is he doing? Didn't Georgette warn him not to. . .

Dax jogs over my way, making his way past the two tributes from District 11, who seem to be having no luck with starting a fire.

"Any luck?" he asks, his eyes bouncing between my face and the snare I have coiled around my fingers. "You know, with finding someone who is both proficient and intelligent."

"Nope," I say, putting down the wire, which should work perfectly in snagging up a rabbit by its hind leg. "What about you?"

"I'm still vacillating between the boys from Three and Eight," answers Dax plainly.

_Using words like that isn't going to get you allies_, I think. To put it bluntly, no one likes to feel dumb, and well, I think Dax doesn't understand that. If he did, he wouldn't use words like proficient, abrogate, exculpate, and vacillate around teenagers who can really care less about vocabulary.

I reply with, "I'm sure you'll make the right choice" as I pick up the wire and start to undo it. The first knot comes out easy, however, the second doesn't, and I soon find myself struggling to take apart the weapon I've created.

From the corner of my eye, I see Dax hold out his hand. "Here, let me help you with that."

"I've almost got it," I say, doing my best to dig my manicured nails into the tiny knot I've concocted.

Yeah, I don't have this.

"Are you sure?" Dax asks. "I'm happy to help if you need it."

But that's the problem, isn't it? Once he does help me, I'll need to help him in return. I'll have to find a way to repay back the debt I've given myself by asking for help in the first place. Because it isn't like I can just ignore gratitude and kindness now. Not when they're both so rare in the land of Panem. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did, anyhow.

"No," I mutter. "I'll figure it out."

Dax laughs, "You do realize that I'm not the enemy, correct?"

No, Dax. I realize that everyone is the enemy. Even, and especially, the guy who grew up in the same poverty ridden district as me.

Hearing my silence, his jaw tightens and his thick eyebrows arch for a few seconds, before he finally says, "I guess what I'm trying to say is that we need a bond of mutual trust between us."

I'm starting to worry that Dax has focused too heavily on learning words and receiving an education. That he's missed a crucial lesson that even the most dimwitted people back in District 10 know: Trust is indeed earned, not given.

I continue to remain quite, not sure if I should inform him of the life lesson most of us know by now.

"I'm going to go now," he says to me. "Give you time to let that proposition settle in."

I watch as Dax struts back across the floor and over to the weapon station. Picking up a sword, he too shows the same ferociousness the girl from 5 did. I go to look away, but a question burns in my mind as I watch him tear the poor dummy to shreds with the suave blade.

Is there really anyone here who can be truly trusted?

* * *

**Metias Callah, District 8 Male**

While holding the pressed coin in my palm, I feel the warm tear glide down my cheek and then drip off my chin. With the back of my hand I wipe the water away. Now is not the time to break. Now is not the time to dwell on everything that I have at risk.

Still, even now, the gain is better than the loss. Well, if you don't count the fact that I could die, of course.

Smashing my fist up into the lumpy pillow, I reposition it beneath my head for the fiftieth time. Funny, how you can sleep better on a stiff mat then you can a bed fit for a king. Or should I say future victor.

I close my eyes, waiting for either the nightmares or dreams to overtake me. At this rate, I'd be happy with either, really. I just want some sleep.

Fifteen minutes pass, then thirty, and finally it's been an hour before I crawl out of bed. Wide awake, I decide to take a walk. If anything, maybe all the movement will have me tired.

The hallway is swarmed with darkness. It's not enough that I can't make my way down it, but it's definitely enough where an eerie chill swims down my spine every few seconds. Oddly, I get the feeling that someone is watching me, but that's mainly because I'm used to never being alone.

In the viewing room, I make my way over to the leather couch. It squeaks when I have a seat. Instantly I find myself blushing, yet the darkness does an awesome job of concealing it.

Sitting here I don't know what to do. I could jog around the crimson colored couch a few times, doing some miniature laps or whatnot, although that doesn't sound too appealing.

Why not run until I have to, right?

With that in mind, I take the controller to the TV and press the button on the pad that turns it on. A flicker of light amounts through the air, and then I'm watching a sinewy boy bash in another kid's head with a piece of jagged concrete. It takes me a few minutes, but soon enough I recognize the boy standing over the limp body. Dallin Barnes, District 10. Victor of the 42nd Annual Hunger Games.

Morally, I know I shouldn't watch these recap of the previous Hunger Games. However, I need all the help I can get. And why not watch someone who has done what I set out to do.

When Dallin crumbles to the floor with the sound of the final canon, my stomach starts to do somersaults. The tan chicken and noodles that I ate for dinner start to rise, too, and I have to force the vomit back down. Stuff doesn't taste so good coming back up either, I can assure you that.

"It seems the two of you are quite alike after all."

The sudden voice causes me to jump, and I swear I think I've just pissed my pants a little. I turn around to see a distinct figure in the shadows. Though, I don't need the light to see who it is. I know that anger by heart now, with or without the face to match it.

My district partner, Naomi Aracus steps out of the shadows. _How long has she been there?_ I think. The sudden appearance reminds me of my brother, how he would appear out of thin air. How he was always watching me.

I go to speak, but the thoughts inside of my head tangle together like matted rope.

"So," Naomi spits, "is this the reason why you volunteered?"

What? No, I didn't volunteer to hurt people. I'm not like him. I'm not.

"No," I say, finding my voice.

"Sure," she says. "Like I'm supposed to believe that after I catch you in here watching the Games willingly."

I was watching it out of observation, not fascination. This footage can teach me so much that my mentors can't. She shouldn't be so quick to dismiss that.

"Believe what you want," I say coolly. "It isn't like you haven't already made your mind up about me anyway."

From the start I've never stood a chance with Naomi. Ever since I volunteered and she saw my face, I've been enemy number one.

"Don't act innocent!" she snaps. "You know what you've done."

"No!" I scream. "What he did! It was him, not me!"

"I know," counters Naomi calmly. "But that doesn't change things, does it? Even if you deny it now, you'll soon be exactly like him. Just wait."

No, I won't. I'll never be anything like Micah

* * *

******Deaths will be based upon realism. I will not base my deaths upon reviews, however, I would like to know if you're reading. If you don't care to review, shoot me a PM, letting me know that you haven't abandoned your tribute. Also, be prepared for not "if", but "when" your tribute dies, because there can only be one victor. Honestly, I hope that you'll stick with me even after your tribute has perished. But if not, then I wish you well in your departure.**

**A/N: Sorry guys for such a late update. I've been on vacation at the beach (suns out, guns out; you know the drill :P.) Plus, I had orientation at my new university this week, too. Yeah, I've been pretty busy. **

**Anyway, I hope I did all twelve of these characters justice.**

**Questions: **

**Thoughts on this twelve tributes (any early favorites)? **

**Thoughts of the remaining twelve tributes (who are you most anxious to hear from)? **

**As for alliances, the only ones that have been confirmed right now are: The Careers, Ryker+Laec, and Cider+Tucker. With the next chapter, I'll be posting more alliances as they form.**

**Oh, and if you want, check out the Mentor's Blog!**

* * *

**Round and Round By: Imagine Dragons**

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**Like always: Read, review, but most importantly, enjoy!**


	5. City of Dreams

**City of Dreams **

_Everything seems like a city of dreams. _

* * *

**Rion Caraher, _District 5_**_ **Male **_

Silently I sit there, scooping in the brown mush as the emotions inside nearly rip through me. I feel the tears threatening my eyes again, as I fall right back into the same routine as I did last night and the night before. But this time I steel myself. Constantly, I tell myself that if I ignore all the fear burrowing inside than it will go away. That it will leave just like it did before.

_I'm still under control_, I tell myself as I get up from the table. Along the way, my foot catches on a chair and I go tumbling to the floor. This is enough to break Bidelia and Aban from their argument. Since I've arrived it's all they do.

"See!" Bidelia spits. "This is what I'm talking about. What happens if he trips in the arena? What will he do then?"

I'll pick myself back up hopefully.

"He'll get back up," says Aban without any doubt in his voice. As of now, I really like my mentor.

"Is that before or after one of the Careers throws a knife in his back," says Bidelia as Aban comes to my aid, helping me back to my feet. Seems I'd forgotten I was still laying on the ground.

Aban smiles at me before turning back to face his advisory. "Bidelia that's enough."

"No!" Bidelia continues, looking at me then Seydre, who seems to be ignoring us all. Something she's taken the liberty of doing since this whole thing started. "You need to stop treating them like they're going to come back, because they're not! These two aren't coming back, Aban!"

I swallow harshly, hoping to wash down the fear slithering up my throat. Why is everything so hopeless to her? Are my odds really that terrible?

Aban growls. "It's a good thing Inger didn't feel that way about you."

Before I can hear Bidelia respond, Aban is escorting me over to the elevator, where I'm supposed to meet Livinia.

Livinia soon appears and I'm taken down to the training center. Seydre is with us, too, and she doesn't say much as Livinia drills her with questions about the previous day of training. Like me, I don't think she knows what to say to these people.

Right from the start, I set off towards the snare station, knowing that its one of the few things I need to work on. In the arena I'll have to learn how to catch my own food, that's a given.

An hour passes, yet I make it nowhere with the wire in my hand. Continuously, I repeat what the trainer shows me, but in the end, mine looks like nothing compared to his. When I'm ready to give up on the whole survival thing, I toss aside the wire and stand to my feet. But as I do, I run smack into the person behind me.

As we both collide to the floor, Peacekeepers swarm us immediately.

"I'm sorry," I blurt. Tears whelp in my eyes but I force them back down. Again, I feel week. I feel out of control as the fear bubbles inside.

"Its fine," says a girl voice from behind the closest peacekeeper.

"You sure," I mutter, although I believe my voice is drowned out by the pounding of the Peacekeepers boots as they head back to their positions.

"Yes," replies the voice, who I can now see is the girl from District 10. During the recaps she wasn't one who stood out to me, so I didn't care to remember her name. Now, however, I'm feeling sort of guilty that I didn't. As I only know her as the girl from 10.

"Okay," I answer sheepishly, taking in account her dark green eyes and distinct cheek bones.

The girl from 10 simply smiles, and then has a seat at the station. And as soon as she does, I have the sudden urge to join her.

"Hey," I smile brightly, taking the seat next to her.

"Yes," the girl from 10 says. I have no idea why I felt the need to gravitate to her. Maybe it's because I do better with support. Or maybe it's because I have no one and I need someone who can help me get through this.

"I'm Rion," I say, my eyes shift down and I catch a glimpse of the snare she's holding in her hand. "And I was wondering if you could teach me how to do that."

The girl stares at me wearingly as if searching my eyes for any underlying motives. "I'm Merris," she says while looping a wire into a hoop. "And before I do, can I trust you, Rion?"

"I'm not sure you can trust anyone," I say back honestly.

"Good point," admits Merris, "Because I was thinking the same thing."

Her lips then quirk up into a lopsided smile. With it, the chains of loneliness and hopelessness start to loosen

* * *

**Naomi Aracus, _District 8 Female _**

I stare bitterly at Metias as he grips the spear, hurtling it at the dummy about ten feet away. _Only two more days_, I tell myself grimly. Just two, and then I'll be able to show Micah what true pain looks like. He'll surely remember my face then as he watches me slit his brother's throat.

After deciding to start at the fire making station, I'm not there long before someone, the girl from District 9, Lore Venere, greets me.

"Is this the fire making station?" she asks, although from the way her eyes bounce from the ceiling to floor, it's clear she isn't too focused on where she is. In a way, her hazel eyes remind me of the sponge I used to soak of the blood the night on the beach. They absorb everything.

"Yes, it is," I answer, my voice much more childlike than I mean it to be.

"Great!" exclaims Lora. "Now, all I have to do is get some dry leaves and a bundle of sticks."

"Over there," I say, directing her to the supplies the trainer told us that we could use. I watch as she skips over to the supplies, taking handfuls of this and that. Clearly, this girl has never made a fire before.

When Lora comes back she's beaming from ear to ear. I only smile in return, but I can tell it's not genuine. Deciding to continue with my learning of the skill, I too walk over to the supplies, grabbing a small handful of dried moss and a couple of sticks.

Within a matter of minutes I have a fire going. Pride surges in my chest at the accomplishment, but before I start to brag, I look over to Lora who seems to still have nothing.

"I just don't understand," she sighs. "I'm doing everything like he said to."

Curious, I get up from my spot and make my way over to Lora. Right now, I'm in need of an ally. And for all I know Lora may just be that. After all, she does seem submissive enough, and I know from experience that people like that work well with opinionated people like myself.

"So Lora," I start.

"Hey," Lora interrupts. "How do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know almost everyone," I say proudly. "I took the liberty of memorizing most of the tribute's names during the train ride. I feel it's better if I know everything about my competition."

"That makes sense," agrees Lora. "So . . . you already know my name, but I don't think I know yours." She giggles, obviously embarrassed.

"Naomi Aracus," I introduce myself as I have many times before back home to those I'm trying to impress. Sometimes, people find my kindness a little faulty, and honestly, they probably should. You can't be genuine all the time, now can you?'

Lora smiles, "It's nice to meet you, Naomi."

I return the gesture, "The same to you."

"Now," I start, after allowing a few minutes of silence between us. "Let's work on your fire starting skills, shall we?"

"Sure," chuckles Lora. "Oh, and does this mean we're allies or something now."

Perfect. This isn't going to be too difficult at all.

"I think you read my mind," I say this as I prepare to start my second fire of the day.

"Awesome!" chirps Lora with novel excitement.

"So," I start, directing the conversation over to where I remain in control of things. For if it was up to me, I would always be in control. "Tell me a little about yourself Lora. Say your strengths, weaknesses, family life, and age. Oh, I want to know it all!"

"Okay!" shouts Lora, and before I even have to tell her to start she's spitting off facts about her life left and right. As she does, I file everything she says away, making sure to remember anything that can be of use while in the arena. Because like I said before, I like to know everything there is to know about my competition.

* * *

**Dax Landcastor_, District 10 Male_**

Confidently, I strut over to the trainer. When I'm directly in front of him, I put on my most charming smile and simply say, "May I use the crossbow, sir?"

"We aren't offering those in the arena this year, boy," snips the dark-skinned man. "So you'll have to find another useless weapon to fight with."

I don't know if I'm more offended by being called boy or by the fact that he's implying that a weapon will be useless while in my grip. Surely, this man doesn't know me. He doesn't know what Dax Landcastor is capable of doing.

"But I thought the Capitol offered-" I begin, doing my best to contain the other side of me. The side that isn't so pleasant and charming.

"Listen, I already told you, I don't have the weapon," repeats the fool who's becoming quite intolerable. I do my best to breathe in and out, calming myself as the anger boils inside. Now is not the time to piss me off, trust me.

"Excuse me," calls a voice, turning my attention around. The boy from District 3, Cordin Gerick, comes walking over to me. When he reaches us, he smile then asks if he can hold a machete.

The man hands it to him and Cordin heads over to the first dummy he sees, passing the girl from District 5, who seems to be pretty impressive with a sword. I make a quick note to approach her today or tomorrow.

For a few minutes I study Cordin's fighting stance. It isn't good, but it's not necessarily bad either, I decide. He could be an advantageous ally no doubt. And with that in mind, I'm upon him in minutes.

"Cordin, is it?" I ask. Cordin sizes me up, but I don't allow his wandering eyes to knock me off my game. I have a plan, and in order for other people to believe in your plan, you need confidence. It's as rudimentary as geometry is to physics. Or to me it is, at least.

"Yeah," Cordin says, still gripping the machete handle tightly. Seems I may have been erroneous about his fighting technique after all. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"There is," I say self-assuredly. "You see, I've been vacillating on whether or not I want allies." I pause, still keeping an eye on the machete. While observing the sleek blade, I wonder if I could be just as proficient with the weapon as Cordin is.

"And," he adds, signaling for me to continue.

"I was curious to know if you would like to make a proposition," I finish.

"You want to be allies," Cordin says, putting my sentence into simple terms.

I give a wide grin. "Bingo."

Cordin's shoulders rise as he scratches his chin. From the looks of it – his body movement and gestures - he's debating on whether this is the right path he should follow. I can't say I blame him for taking his time. In his shoes, I would be doing the same thing.

"Yeah, why not?" he finally says to me. His lips peel into a smirk and I get the gut feeling that there's something more he wants to add.

"Great," I say. "Where should w-"

"Before we seal the deal," starts Cordin. "I'd like to see if you're as good with your hands as you are with your words." He hands me the machete. "After all, an ally who is incapable with a weapon would only be dead weight."

Oh, I couldn't agree with you more, buddy.

Taking the machete in hand, I storm over to the dummy. With all my might, I send the blade gliding through it. A rush of red feathers storm my face and I have to wave them away with my free hand. When my vision clears, I see that the dummy's head has been cut clean off. I smirk, pride rushing through me at the accomplishment.

I turn around, looking back at Cordin, who seems to be impressed. Then, behind him I notice the girl from 5 raising her eyebrow. Taking that as my cue, I strut my way over to her, hoping to repeat the process and claim yet another pawn for my game.

* * *

**Kendra Lear_, District 1 Female_**

"Stop it!" giggles Neith as her and Bastian continue on with their frivolous charades. Watching them flirt, I can't say I'm not the least bit jealous that she's the one the hunk from 4 is drooling over. Because well, I kind of am. The girl tends to attract attention like shit does gnats. And that in itself is starting to become a problem. For me, at least.

"Fine," laughs Bastian, a smile touching his eyes. Since when have the two of them become so close? Surely, you can't form that type of bond in two days time. _Please_, I remind myself, _there's a lot of things you can form in two days time_. I for one should know.

"So," I start, voice peppy and smiling. This isn't like me to not have full control of the situation. See, I think I've allowed Neith to play leader, or should I say mascot, long enough. Its time the eyes start to fall on me. "Is everyone enjoying training so far, because I know I am!" I inwardly cringe as my voice goes up too high. Maybe that was a little too much. Oh, well. It isn't like I haven't faked kindness before, anyway.

"I most certainly am, silly!" answers Neith. Her voice is also high, mirroring mine. Ignoring the ingenuity laced in her tone, I watch as her left eyebrow arches, obviously hinting to something that her words will not. Is this a challenge I'm foreseeing? Does Miss Neith have something up her sleeve? Well, maybe, I should say skirt, as that seems more fitting for someone of her class.

Anyway, I give her wink back and a wave, prodding her all the more. If she wants to be the center of this alliance, she'll have to work for it. And by work, I mean, she'll have to do a little better than just laughing and hair flipping. Its time we see what she's truly capable of.

"Neith," I say gently. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kiah and Castor finally having a seat with their trays. Sadly, neither have yet to make an impression on me. Only Cartier, who I believe is fetching our trays at this very moment, Neith, and Bastian are on my radar.

"Yes," says Neith as she flips back a strand of golden hair. For a moment, I fantasize about chopping off all her flowing locks whilst she sleeps. I wonder if she's just as pretty bald. I stifle a laugh rising in my throat at the image. No, I imagine she wouldn't be.

"Did you train much back in District two?" I ask the question, not so much because I care, but because I want to remain in control of today's lunch conversation.

"I did," answer Neith shortly. Her eyes dart over to Castor, watching him as he takes a chunk out of a biscuit. "But Castor trained more, didn't you Casy?"

"Don't call me that," replies Castor stiffly. He doesn't even take the time to roll his eyes, which I applaud him for.

Okay, so it's evident that District 2 isn't solid this year. Which makes it all the more easier for Cartier and I to take control of the alliance, something District 1 has yet to do as of late.

"Call you what?" prods Neith as she twirls a strand of hair in between her index finger and thumb. "I thought you liked our little nicknames."

Oh, this girl is good.

"No, you just insist that I do," says Castor dryly. The way he talks to Neith reminds me of the way I speak to my parents. Though, maybe he despises her more than I do them. And I can't say I blame him, because even though my parents were never around, they still had the decency to act as though they had all their marbles.

"Brought you dinner, gorgeous," coos Cartier as he takes a seat next to me.

I smile brightly. "Thank you, Cartier."

He doesn't say you're welcome though. He only jumps into the food before him, shoveling it down like the tools back at the academy did. Honestly, I never knew what I saw in them. I never knew what caused them to catch my attention. Maybe it was because those were the type of guys that girls like me were supposed to date.

"Cartier," interrupts Neith.

"Yep," he mumbles. His words inaudible because of the amount of food he has packed in his mouth.

"I was curious to know how much you can lift," continues Neith sweetly. "I mean, I've noticed your biceps, and well. . ." Neith blushes, totally playing up the cliché act that all pretty girls know.

Instead of looking at Cartier, I turn to Bastian, who seems to have stiffened in his seat. Hmm. Appears fish boy is jealous.

"One ninety," replies Cartier nonchalantly.

Turning, Neith asks, "And you, Bastian?"

"One sixty five."

"Awe," pouts Neith. "I thought you'd be able to lift more than that."

With a swipe of his plate, Bastian gets up from the table. Obviously, she's damaged his fragile ego.

Gasping, Neith whispers, "Was it something I said?"

I hold back the urge to roll my eyes. Please, when is it something that you don't say, Neith.

* * *

**Laec Arias_, District 6 Male_**

I shrink up against the wall as the boy from District 4 comes hurtling my way. In the process, my tray drops and my food spills all over the floor.

"Hey," Ryker yells, drawing attention to us both. Instantly I find myself drowning in the fear that's rising in my throat. I do my best not to let it show, to tuck it away like my mother would a ragged cloth in my shirt when I ate for dinner. She always babied me then and I hated it. Yet now, I'd do anything to be back in her arms.

"Yeah," mutters the boy from 4. His face is red, flustered with anger and whatever else is causing the vein in his neck to bulge. When his eyes find mine, I find myself scooting closer to Ryker. I don't know why, but a part of me thinks she can protect me. Although the hope is false, because I know no one can truly protect me. Not now, not ever.

"You need to watch where you're going," replies Ryker coolly_. How is she remaining so calm?_ I ask myself. Because right now I'm doing all I can not to create a miniature ocean in my pants.

To take my mind off the fear building inside me, I look down at my shoes. The laces are a lot more welcoming than the cold look in the sinewy boy's grey eyes.

"Whatever," sighs the boy from 4, and then the slamming of his footsteps start to fill the room. It's only when they become muted that I decide to finally look up.

"Laec," says Ryker, pulling me out of the tide of emotions swarming inside me. Right now, it'd be too easy to cry and dart back to my room. Yet this is something I have to face, even if I don't want to. Now is the time for me to be strong.

"Yep," I shoot back, my voice searching for a tone that doesn't say I'm afraid.

I fail.

Ryker frowns, although she quickly attempts to mask it. "Let's go over to the hammock making station."

At the hammock making station, we watch the trainer weave together leaves and other types of branches in order to form a place to sleep. The man reassures us that once we make a shelter sleep will be easier and more convenient. He forgets to mention how easy it is to close your eyes while twenty-two other kids are out searching to murder you.

"The guy's a little delusional, don't you think?" snorts Ryder once the trainer leaves us in order to help the pretty girl from District 12.

I chuckle. "I think he's even more naïve than me."

"I think you're right there," adds Ryker as she stands to her feet, dropping a leafy limb along the way. "I think we've seen enough here. Where to next?"

Uneasiness washes over me at the question. What if I suggest a place that she doesn't want to go? What then? Besides, I've never been good at taking charge of the situations. Usually, someone else does that for me.

"We could try the rope course," I say finally. I could use the practice at climbing, I think.

"Lead the way," says Ryker straightforwardly. "I'm right behind you little man."

Slowly but surely, I make my way over to the rope course. Thankfully, when we arrive, no one is there.

"Do you want to go first?" I ask sheepishly. Even though Ryker and I have known each other a few days, she still intimidates me sometimes. Especially when it comes to training, as I know she's more than likely stronger, faster, and smarter than me, given her age.

"You can go first," she suggests, and I nod.

Walking up to the ropes I feel as if I've swallowed a handful of pebbles. Hand over hand, I start to shimmy my way up to the top of the course. As I do, I notice my muscles starting to burn from the exertion.

Near the top, I decide I'm high enough and begin my climb back down. I've only moved a few feet when all of a sudden the net shifts. I do my best to hold on, to fight the screaming of my muscles. But in the end, I don't have the strength and I my grip gives.

Falling. It happens slowly. The pain, however, couldn't come any faster.

"Laec!" screams Ryker. "Are you okay?! Is there anything broken?!"

She goes to touch my shoulder, to help me up, but I shake her away gently, too ashamed to be in her presence.

When I stand, the tears from the pain, embarrassment, and fear all start to come. Before giving them the chance of making me look any weaker than I already do, I dart towards the elevator.

All I want is to be home.

* * *

**Cidar Rye_, District 11 Male _**

The elevator opens and Tuck and I walk into our quarters. To say I'm happy to be through with training for the day would be a complete understatement. I mean, who knew preparing for the Hunger Games would be so exhausting?

Dragging my feet, I make my way over to the couch. I eye the soft, plush leather and then flump down on top of it. Soon, I find myself sinking deep into softness.

In the background I hear Tuck talking to her mentor, Seeder. Well, maybe she isn't really talking, more so narrating, as Tuck tends to do that a lot. I'd be lying if I said her stories didn't make me feel uneasy, and it's not that their full of gruesome details either, but because in every story my father makes the same appearance.

So yeah, I'm the son of the head peacekeeper back in District 11. Lucky me, right?

Wrong.

Typically, I'm not the most loveable guy back in Eleven. People tend to not take the fact that my father hands out floggings left and right so kindly. I've even had two brothers jump me before. Beat me until my left eye swelled shut, too. All because my father flogged their father for taking extra breaks.

Their only fault was that they should've beaten me until both my eyes were swelled shut. Maybe then I wouldn't have been able to identify them the next day on the streets. But hey, I guess when you're bashing a poor guy over the head with a stick you're not thinking about the fact that he's memorizing everything about you. If they were smart, they would've blindfolded me. That, or put a mask over their rat faces.

But still, how is any of that my fault? You can't help the family you're born into. You can't help those you love. And mine - the ones I love and my family - happen to be those that everyone else hates.

"You're back!" cheers Adio.

If going into the Games wasn't punishment enough, I have to deal with this two toned misfit fro the next few days. Really, who attempts to dye their skin brown? Or even black? All because they want to make the kids they've just sentenced to their death feel better.

"And you're two toned!" I laugh. "Brown with a swirl of white, yeah?"

Tucker and Seeder's conversation comes to a halt as Adio snorts.

"I didn't say black!" he cries. "I said back."

I smirk. "Maybe you should enunciate better then. Because honestly, half the time I have no idea what you're rambling about." I pause, taking the time to think of something witty to close with. "But then again, I didn't understand the stray tabby cats either."

Now, I've really done it. The colorful man loses it. Oh, and by loses it, I mean rivers start to stream from his eyes.

Cute, huh?

Wrong again.

The man blabbers like that of newborn baby. No, scratch that. When babies cry I don't want to vomit out my insides in the nearest trashcan.

"Eladio," Seeder pleads, cutting me a glance before stepping over to consult our broken escort. "Please. . . please don't cry."

"They hate me," he whimpers, voice low and barely audible between sops. "They always hate me no matter how hard I try."

And that's the problem. You shouldn't try to make us like you. You shouldn't try to be one of us. Instead, you should try to find another job. You should try to stop these wicked Games from taking place every year.

Tucker moves over to me, a look of concern on her face. When I see it, I'm kind of taken back. I never expected her to be the one to have compassion for the guy who thought she was a boy.

"Cidar," Tucker whispers. "I think we should go to bed."

_But I'm enjoying the show_, I think grimly. For once, it's nice to see one of them crying instead of one of us.

She takes my hand, pulling me from the cushion that I swear I'd stuff up my shirt if they didn't have cameras. Obediently, I follow her down the eerie lit hallway, but it's not before I turn around and call out, "Stay bronzen" over my shoulder.

* * *

**Neith Mortici_, District 2 Female_**

"Neith," growls Elara when I come strutting in.

I swallow the snort rising in my throat, replacing it quickly with a singsong, "Yes!"

"Enough with the act," she deadpans. "It grows tedious after awhile."

Instantly I go rigid. My body turning as cold as ice. Sure, this may all be an act, but you don't call out an actress on stage. You simply applaud. And well, Elara should be doing just that. After all, I'm going to put her name back in the mouths of those in the Capitol. Something she, of all people, should be grateful for.

"Oh," I say, doing my best to muffle the beast of anger clawing in me. I'll have to make sure she regrets ever calling me out for my actions. "What act are we talking about exactly?"

Gradually, I shift my eyes from her to the knife on the table. Oh, how easier this would be if I could just jab it through her eye and be done with it. Sometimes, I wonder if all this taunting and flirting and manipulating is really worth it. But then, I see how people squirm when I toy with them, when I find the right buttons to push, and I know it is. Well, it is for me, of course.

"Please," Elara continues. "Enough with this act of innocence."

Innocence? Now, I never said I was innocent. That must be something she implied. The same with Bastian. I never said I was interested in him. I only showed him a little attention and he bit down like a hungry fish on a hook. A shiny, perfectly carved hook, too, if I do say so myself.

"I really have no ide-" I begin.

"You forget I trained you, dear," she says to me, a smirk forming on her mundane looking face. Constantly I have to remind myself that not everyone is blessed with beauty. "You forget that the walls are thin back at the academy. Not to mention, the boys." She stops, her glare matching mine. "Oh, and do the boys talk about you, sweetie."

Of course they do. I'm one of the few who can give them something worthy to talk about.

"And?" I taunt. I coil a strand of hair around my finger, twirling it frivolously.

Elara glares at me "And what?"

"And what do my admirers say of me?" I laugh, turning our conversation into something that I find pleasure in. Like Castor, Elara can be someone else that I toy with while staying here in the Capitol. Truly, it beats dying of boredom.

Speaking of the little goblin, he comes walking in all gloomy and defeated. Yes, I know I throw smiles around like I imagine Kendra does her underwear back home. But really, would it hurt the boy to act as though he's happy to be here. This is a once and a life time opportunity, which he should find joy in while he's still breathing.

I turn to Castor, "Good morning, Casy!"

Castor cuts me a glance, and then as quickly as he enters the room, he leaves. And like all good "lapdogs" do, I follow. I'm pretty sure Elara calls for me to come back, but I ignore her commands. This isn't the academy anymore. I can gladly go where I please. However, I will make a point to continue our conversation. Though, that will have to be later. Maybe when I return home as victor. Or it could even give us something to talk about during the victory tour. A little girl on girl chat, I suppose.

The elevator doors open right as I turn the corner and I see Castor stepping inside. Our escort, Nays goes to follow, but I quickly bump her out of the way. Giggling loudly as I do so.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asks as she regains her balance. I'm almost certain the rapid jarring of her feet has caused one of her heels to break, too. But that doesn't matter, because her shoes are typically as cute as old man Atticus.

"We need a little make-out session before training, okay?" I then do the obnoxious laugh that I've perfected with time. "Okay!"

And now, I'm pressing the button, causing the elevator doors to slide shut.

"What do you think you're doing?" shoots Castor.

"Living!" I beam, voice high and perky. Not as perky as my brea-

"Nays is supposed to escort us down to training," Castor continues, severing me from my thoughts. "It's part of the rules."

"There are no rules," I chuckle. Then, tossing back my blonde hair, I stride out of the elevator doors, demanding the attention around me. Within a few moments, my alliance members are cutting glances my way, causing me to pick up my frolicsome charade of waving and bouncing uncontrollably.

I go to announce myself, but Castor's next words seal my succulent lips shut.

"They'll find you out soon enough," he says to me. "And when they do, I'm just going to sit back and watch it all unfold."

Swiftly I spin around. Our eyes meet for a few seconds before another glittering smile finds my face. "Sweetheart, who's to say you live long enough to see all that happen."

My smile grows brighter as Castor swallows harshly. He, like all the other rejects in my alliance, has no idea what I'm truly capable of.

* * *

**Nash Terrin_, District 7 Male_**

_"_We need to strengthen this alliance," says my district partner, Arleigh openly.

_Alliance_. Thinking the word causes my heart to beat rapidly. I'd never expected to gain one so quickly, but Alreigh. She . . . well . . . she helped me out back at the parade so it felt wrong to say "no" when she suggested the idea.

I forget to mention the fact that I have no connection with Arleigh. Our hobbies and likes are a mesh of differences. So much that it's as though she's from another district, not Seven. And honestly, that isn't something foreign to me either. Because I guess you can say I'm used to feeling disconnected from people in my district, or just people in general.

"So," Arleigh drags on, "Who do you have in mind?"

Technically, I don't have anyone in mind just yet. Glancing around the room, I notice the boys from District 12 and 9 chatting near the sword station. And odd pair no doubt, with one being eighteen and the other twelve or maybe thirteen. Either way, he's extremely young, making it unlikely that someone who actually has a chance in these Games would want him as an ally.

The dark skinned girl from District 3 cuts me a viscous glance when our eyes meet, and I quickly glance down at the floor as my cheeks flush with redness. She's definitely not an option. Too aggressive and hostile.

I think I want someone friendly. Someone who isn't the strongest in physical strength, so that he or she can't overpower me, but instead will be loyal. I won't say that I want someone who is completely mindless and easy to manipulative. But, I guess you can say I wouldn't mind the fact if they were less brash about declaring their opinions.

"What about them, Nash?" asks Arleigh as she points over towards the edible plant station. I glance over in that direction, uncovering the dark haired boy from District 5 and the ghostly pale girl from District 10. Both are shorter than me, and well, seem nonthreatening enough.

"Sure," I reply softly.

"Excellent!" squeals Arleigh, her voice carrying higher than she realizes. With the noise, I give her a glance, placing a finger over my lips. In return, she blushes and nods her head. The only problem with Arleigh is her mouth. Not that's she's rude either, just obnoxiously loud at times. Which means if I can't keep it under control now, it could cause us problems once we're in the arena.

Arleigh and I make our way over to the edible plant station, with my steps being slower than hers. I'm starting to think it best if I allow her to lead this alliance. That way she's the target people choose if we become a threat, or they want the option to flake.

"Hello," says Arleigh kindly once we reach the pair. "I'm Arleigh"

With curious eyes, they both stare at us. Instantly I allow my most charming smile to grace my face, hoping it can wash away some of the awkwardness.

"Hi," I add, still smiling though my lips feel dry. "I'm Nash Terrin, and it's nice to meet you both."

"Rion," replies the boy from District 5.

The girl remains silent. Her eyes saying all the words she needs to. She's waiting to hear our reasons for approaching while sizing us both up in the process.

"Nice to meet you, Rion," I say.

"Same to you, Nash," laughs Rion, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

I chuckle. "What are you guys studying over?"

"Edible roots," answers Rion.

"You mean rabbit food," I say jokingly.

He laughs, though Arleigh and the other girl do not. With their silence, I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling just as out of place as my pun. Usually, Arleigh has a sense of humor...

"We wanted to know if you'd be interested in an alliance," drives Arleigh straight to the point. Nervously I cut her a glance. Maybe asking the question like that is a little to forward. I mean, shouldn't we ease into this, like the way you do your second piece of honey smeared bread. Eat the sweet stuff too quickly and you'll be vomiting it back up.

The girl from District 10 gives Rion a look and he nods, which I have no idea what it means, considering nods and silence can speak a thousand words.

"Okay," says the girl to Arleigh and me.

"She's Merris, by the way," interrupts Rion, gesturing to his tightlipped ally.

"Well," I say, looking at Merris. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Rion chuckles, "Why are you speaking so formally?"

Before I can answer, Arleigh suggest we break into smaller groups, taking the time to get to know each other. She says how the girls should head in one direction, the boys the other.

Once Arleigh has dragged Merris away, Rion and I head over to the edible insects section. While we sort out the insects that are poisonous, we make small talk. All the time, however, I'm wondering if Rion will be just like all the friends I have back home. I wonder if through these circumstances things will be different on my end.

Maybe now, I could possibly feel something.

* * *

**Maven Ashford_, District 3 Female _**

During lunch I sit alone, distant, away from all the other tributes, or should I say future competitors. As I take a few sips of water from the metal cup, my eyes dart from table to table, analyzing them each.

We have the Careers: the bloodthirsty sociopaths from Districts 1, 2, and 4, who crave attention from the crowds of Panem because they didn't get enough from mommy and daddy.

Next, we have the boy from District 5, the pair from 7, and the girl from 10: the weaklings. More than likely all will be bloodbaths.

Then, there's the pair from District 11. The boy could be a threat if he stopped goofing off long enough to realize it. The girl doesn't stand a chance though.

There's also Gerick and his two allies Dax Landcaster of District 10 and the beaver looking girl from District 5, who I've yet to learn the name of. Then again, her name doesn't matter. Only her face matters in the end, technically. Because that's what I'll remember when I'm looking up at the sky while I'm in the arena. In there, we all become nameless.

And now, as I flip my eyes to the left, I see the broad shouldered Eliah Seeton from District 12 coming my way. Tossing down his tray, he has a seat directly in front of me. As he gobbles down his food like some sort of primate, I glare at him ruthlessly. Didn't I make it clear that I wanted to be alone? Well, alone until I decided upon whom I planned to make a temporary alliance with.

"Is there something wrong with your eyes?" asks Eliah nonchalantly.

At the sound of his voice, I suppress the growl rolling in my throat. Then, I reply with, "No. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he says mockingly.

"There's always a reason behind frivolous questions," I counter, rolling my eyes along with the words.

"There is," says Eliah.

"There are," I correct.

He straightens in his seat, placing down the silverware he's been using to shovel in the mashed potatoes and lean green beans. Until now, I've never had such cooking. Typically, we don't eat fresh foods back in District 3. More so canned, or food filled with some type of preservatives.

"And I thought I was cold," admits Eliah. "Yet, compared to you, I'm as bubbly as the girl from two." I turn my head, catching sight of the blonde bimbo, who seems to be bursting with joy and enthusiasm. I snort.

"So we do have a soul?" he taunts. "That or you had something caught in your throat."

"Why are you here?" I deadpan.

"Because this table is closest to the food," he says flatly, "Which I plan on getting seconds of."

I smirk. "Seems like a lucid reason if you ask me, although you do seem the type to-"

"To what?" he interrupts.

Our glares are stony towards each other, as if challenging the other to look away out of an act of submission. Finally, after a few seconds, he breaks our little moment we're having and turns back to his plate of food.

"May I continue?" I ask. I don't really ask in order to get permission, but more so to get a rise out of the arrogant prick.

"Depends on what you plan on continuing," he retorts.

"My previous sentence," I say pretentiously. "As I recall, you interrupted me."

"As I recall," he mimics my condescending tone. "You didn't answer my question."

Hmm. Maybe he isn't such a prick after all, considering a little spunk can get you a long way in the Hunger Games. And maybe, just maybe, I can use this boy. Have another fighter in my corner, I suppose.

* * *

**Bastian Prewitt_, District 4 Male _**

Twirling the hook in my hand, I think about what I've really done by putting myself here. After yesterday, after being embarrassed by Neith, and being practically labeled as the weak link, I'm starting to wonder if this was a mistake.

Sure, I trained as well as the next person did. Okay, maybe I didn't train as much as Kiah did or some of the other more hardened careers. But for all it's worth, training with a sword doesn't put bread on the table. Besides, I have other obligations that I have to take care of. Things, that if I don't do, I don't get paid.

So yes, I'm a little flustered at the thought that both Cartier and Castor are stronger than me. And yes, I'm slightly nervous that I'm weaker than the two. But no, I refuse to be the weak link in this alliance. And more importantly, I refuse to allow Neith to downgrade me to that position.

I still can't believe I thought she was hot. . .

Moving away from the fishing station – one of the only places I feel comfortable – I make my way over to the spear station, seeing Castor and Kiah both there already. The two seem to have formed some type of friendship, as this is the fourth time I've caught them together in the past few days.

Turing around, I scan for my other allies. Kendra and Cartier are at archery while Neith-

Yeah, she's almost naked and covering herself with oil. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the boys from 10 and 3 watching her too. Both have wide grins on their faces as Neith prepares to wrestle one of the trainers. Even though I kind of hate her right now, oh how I wouldn't kill to be that trainer right now.

Let's face it, I'm only a man.

"Bastian!" Neith calls when she catches me eyeing her.

I quickly look away. _She isn't worth it_, I tell myself firmly. In fact, I can't think of one decent girl who is, besides my sister Coralie, of course. She's the only girl I've met back in Four who doesn't want something of me. Truthfully, I think most beautiful girls only want you- guys in general - for pleasure, satisfaction. That, or they want us for the coins in our pockets. Luckily, I don't have any of those. Pockets, I mean.

And, I guess I can't complain about being used, can I? Because I myself used people to get where I am now. I even used the whole belt stunt at the reaping in hope of getting me sponsors. But now, I only think it's going to get me even more clients for when I return.

"Come join me, Bastian!" coos Neith from across the room.

I waste no time scrambling over to Kiah and Castor, nearly running into the latter in the process.

"Care if I join you?" I ask, interrupting Kiah in mid-conversation.

She smiles kindly. "No, I don't mind at all."

Castor stares at me a few minutes before saying, "Nope." Then, he struts over to the spear lodging out of the closest target and yanks it free.

"You want to throw next?" asks Kiah as she readies her spear in hand. Countless times I've watched her throw back at the Academy. For some unknown reason, I've always been interested in Kiah Mirelle. Maybe it's because I'm used to girls wanted me and she didn't. Or maybe it's because she always seemed so sure of herself, practically ignoring everyone except for her friend, Cameron.

I shake away the thoughts, as if they're water, and step up to the mark, gripping tightly the spear Castor has handed to me. Setting my eyes on the target, I tell myself to aim directly for the center. Taking a deep breath, I then pull back my arm, mirroring the technique I was taught back at the academy. When I'm ready to release, I exhale, sending the spear through the air.

A distinct thud echoes through the air, and I smile, knowing I've hit the mark.

"Impressive," says Kiah. "Don't you think so, Castor?"

"Very," Castor adds, and I can't tell if he's being genuine or cynical, although judging by the slight smile he gives me as he rushes over to get the spear, I'd say the former. _Maybe he isn't as bad as Neith made him out to be__, _I think.

When Castor is out of hearing range, Kiah whispers, "I think we should use Castor to our advantage."

"How?" I ask softly. Who knew Kiah took what Muscida said seriously?

I know I didn't.

Kiah has to know what Muscida is asking us to do is suicide. That at the end of the day, she has nothing to lose if her devious plan falls through. Because whether we're in a wooden box or the seat next to her, she still returns home. Plain and simple.

"It'd be three on three, then," Kaih looks as though she's struggling to say the words.

"I see," I say, digesting our new odds with Castor on our side. "But would Castor be willing to-"

My words come to a halt as soon as Castor reappears. Kiah smiles at him, then me, before taking the spear out of his hand. And just like that, we're already keeping secrets. We're already using each other to get farther in this devilish game.

* * *

**Thalia Belmont_, District 12 Female_**

My muscles tense as the boy from District 9, Radison Bombeck, I believe passes me by. More than once I've realized that the camouflage station isn't a real popular place to be. I think that's why I gravitated to it, too. Solitude has a way of calling my name, so it seems. That, and I tend to answer.

Examining the colors I have no idea what to do with them. Honestly, I'm no artist. Probably never will be either. Yet, something about the way the trainer smears the warm, vibrant colors on the page causes me to feel indifferent. I feel as if I'm no longer wearing a mask.

But I am. Because when the man asks me if I want to try, I don't respond. And when he looks to my emotionless face, he only starts dabbing his paintbrush in water frantically. I guess I unnerve him slightly. Or it could be greatly, whichever, I'm not sure.

Dipping the tip of a paintbrush in black, I begin to stroke the dark liquid across my pale skin. Immediately, I imagine myself going invisible in the darkness. This could be a handy tool if faced with a dark and murky arena, I realize. I could remain hidden until most of the tributes are dead.

"Black isn't your color," laughs a voice, which sends a sprinkle of goosebumps down my spine. Almost instant do I become rigid, my painting strokes taunt.

"Sorry," says the voice; it is a boy's. "I was only messing with you."

Gingerly I crane my neck, trying my best to get a look at the boy without making it too obvious.

"I'm to your right," he says. I move my neck in the same direction only a little faster.

"Your other right," he chuckles. Heat flushes my cheeks instantly and I snap my gaze downward, looking at the paint and paintbrushes once more. _Let me focus on them, not him_, I say to myself repeatedly.

It doesn't work, because he's still there. I guess waiting for me to speak. Though, I don't have any words to give him.

"You're quite, huh?" he asks, and I get the feeling that's he's moving closer. Too close, I remind myself.

Now, he's standing right beside me, and I try to move, although my legs won't cooperate. My knees are trembling too heavily to do anything. And I can't help but to ask the question why am I so nervous?

Is it because this random boy approached me? Or is it because this future murderer is asking me if I'm the quite type?

The boy now stands directly beside me and I recognize him to be the volunteer from District 8. Runner built, strong jaw bone, bluish-green eyes hidden behind strands of dirty blond hair. I take it all in when I finally get a good look at him. If honest, he's much more attractive in person too, although I push that thought away swiftly.

"I'm Metias by the way."

I only stare into his eyes, seeing if I can figure out anything from them. Does he have any interior motives? What's his reasoning for coming to the camouflage station when I guy like him, one who has willing walked into a death match, should be practicing with a sword or knife?

"You sure have some beautiful eyes," he says softly, smoothly. With the compliment, my throat turns as dry as sandpaper. I can't swallow. Never, has a boy complimented me so openly before.

For the first time since I've been to the Capitol, I smile, though it's short and over as quickly as it came. The boy, Metias, doesn't miss it though, as his eyes seem to gleam with the brief emotion that has painted my features.

He laughs, loudly. I raise my eyebrow, a seed of panic growing in me. What's funny? Was there something caught in my teeth from lunch?

Metias catches onto my look, then shakes his head slightly. "Sorry about that," he apologizes. "But you kind of have paint all over your crouch."

I look down, seeing the smear of black paint all over my mid torso. How did that get there?

Embarrassed, I grab the nearest cloth, dipping it in water, and begin diligently scrubbing at the paint. It doesn't help. Before long, I've only made things worse. The smear larger and my pants ruined.

"I would help," states Metias. "But I don't really know you like that."

Surprisingly, I laugh at this. And I don't know why I do. Maybe it's the nerves and the lack of sleep. Yet, no matter what the reason, it feels nice to let my guard down a little, if even for a second.

"Was that you?" asks Metias, mouth agape dramatically. After few seconds of this he grins stupidly at me.

And I fight the urge to give a toothy smile back.

* * *

**Lora Venere_, District 9 Female _**

Lights. There are brilliant, sparkling lights that nearly swallow me with each gaze I take out the window. Taking it all in: the colossal Capitol buildings, the upbeat music, the screens with all our faces plastered to them, I can't help but to be both mesmerized and sickened.

Back in District 9 there were no lights on after dark. We simply went to bed with sun. But here, it's as though another city has blossomed forth with the raising of the stars and moon. A city that appears to be both a dream and a nightmare.

My fingers trail the silhouettes of the buildings, outlining them. How can man create something so vast, something so extraordinary?

Really, I don't know how they designed it. All I do know is that I can't stop wondering what it must feel like to walk into that beautiful building every day, to take an elevator up that many levels, to feel that important. As my hand finds the cold glass in front of me, I wonder if the view from the roof is as glorious as I think it to be. I imagine myself standing up there, the wind blowing through my hair, the music and chants fading into silence. Up there I could be free, like the birds who soar the sky are. I'd be so high up that my worries wouldn't dare to follow. They'd be too afraid, I think, like how all the boys were when I dared them to climb the old oak tree that grows right off the grain fields.

"Lora," says my mentor, Jamilee softly. Her voice is always barely audible and lately I find myself struggling to hear the words she's saying. If only she spoke a little louder, with a little more confidence. A thought burst into my head, filling me with excitement and longing. That's what I can do! I can help Jamilee with her confidence! I may not be some extravagant building that she can climb to escape her problems, but I'm almost as good, right?

Right.

"Yes," I say, a toothy grin forming on my face as the words slip off my tongue.

"I was only going to remind you that it's getting late and that you need to rest," answers Jamilee, her eyes downshifting as soon as mine look into them. Jeez. This may be harder than I thought. Nonetheless, I'm still up for the challenge! "You have a busy day tomorrow with training and all."

Oh, right. Training. Well, I'm not so worried about training at this moment. I'll cross that bridge the moment I step off the elevator. I mean, it isn't like I can't do both. I can help Jamilee some with her confidence tonight, and then I can learn about weapons and survival skills tomorrow with Naomi_. Yeah_, I think, smiling a little. _I_ _can definitely do that. _

"I'm not tired," I quickly interject. And then, before Jamilee and scurry back into her quarters, I add, "How are you doing this evening?"

Jamilee doesn't speak. She only looks at me with concern, something finding her eyes that wasn't present a few seconds ago. Suddenly, I feel nervous, anxious even. Was there something I said? Sometimes, I have the tendency of stepping over boundaries, as I've never been a shy person. I remember once when I was eleven I asked the teacher during a discussion about grain production if it was possible for us to move to the Capitol willingly. You should've seen how fast the silence crept into the room. But hey, all I wanted to know was if it was possible to move to the Capitol. Because then, I'd be free from the reaping and the Hunger Games.

"Lora, dear," interrupts Jamilee through my flashback. "Have you even heard a word I said?"

No, I haven't. I was too busy with the thoughts inside my head to take notice of everything going on outside of it. It's another tendency I have.

"No," I say, embarrassed.

Jamilee shakes her head. "Lora you need to focus. This isn't just a game, and I don't think you know that."

Sure I know it isn't a game, but who's to say I can't enjoy myself while I'm here.

"I am focused," I say defensively. "I'm just not tightly wound like you all are." The phrase is one I coined from my father – it's something he tends to call my mother when she's worrying about our food rations and such.

"You aren't taking this seriously," she counters. "I can see it in your eyes." Speaking of eyes, hers seem to flicker down again. I'm guessing its one of her tendencies. "Oh, how much you remind me of him."

"Who?" I ask.

"My district partner," she answers quietly.

I feel as though I've just swallowed a cluster of rocks. I replay her answer in my head: _her district partner_. I remind her of her district partner! Which means . . . it means that I remind her of someone who is dead.

Dead. The word causes me to sink deeper into the ocean of fear. But I'm too young to die.

* * *

**Deaths will be based upon realism. I will not base my deaths upon reviews, however, I would like to know if you're reading. If you don't care to review, shoot me a PM, letting me know that you haven't abandoned your tribute. Also, be prepared for not "if", but "when" your tribute dies, because there can only be one victor. Honestly, I hope that you'll stick with me even after your tribute has perished. But if not, then I wish you well in your departure.**

**A/N: This chapter was a little difficult to write, if honest. Right now, I'm not all to satisfied with how it turned out, but hey, you can only edit something so many times. So yeah, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter. **

**Oh, and thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. I truly appreciate it. :)**

**Questions:**

**Thoughts on these twelve tributes (any early favorites)?**

**Alliances: The Careers/Ryker+Laec/Cidar+Tucker/Nash+Arleigh+Merris+Rion/Cordin+Dax/ Naomi+Lora - The rest have yet to be confirmed!**

**Solo: Maven, Seydre, Metias, Radison, Eliah, Thalia**

**There's a poll up, so please go vote!**

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**City of Dreams By: Alesso & Dirty South **

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**Like always: Read, review, but most importantly, enjoy!**


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